The Four Horsemen
by Bionically
Summary: Hana Yori Dango set in the glittering world of the Regency England. Rediscover Domyoji, Hanazawa, Mimasaka, and Nishikado as the Four Horsemen, four wealthy, decadent, and highly pursued aristocrats and the young impoverished girl who defies them. (Please note that all character names have been changed, but the story remains essentially the same.)
1. Chapter 1

Tempest Makepeace glumly surveyed the inside of yet another ballroom from the corner of the room in which she was sitting.

Hiding, she corrected herself. She despised London, she despised the hypocrisy of society, and she despised all of the aristocrats and their mercenary ways. It was a mercenary world, in which the value of estates and dowries were discussed broadly in open company and men were shunned upon losing all their wealth in a game of cards by the very companions he had played with the night before.

But I'm no different, she thought.

For Tempest Makepeace had been sent by her parents to make a good marriage to that most relentless of towns, London.

Her parents, she reflected wryly, did not seem capable of comprehending how the polite world worked. They seemed to think she would be absorbed into high society by simply being in geographic proximity, by a sort of osmosis. The simple truth was far more brutal. Without the sartorial armor afforded by plenty of disposable wealth, she was in society and not in at the same time.

She was less than out, she was invisible. She sat next or around Lady Islington, day in and day out at various musicales, routs, balls, and breakfasts. In fact, due to Lady Islington's obsession with pursuing all things fashionable, she even had vouchers to Almack's, for all the good it was doing her parents.

Mrs. and Mr. Makepeace had lobbied with their only titled relative, formerly Penelope Barries, now Lady Islington of some half century years of age, to take Tempest in as a companion during the Season, selling odd knickknacks around the house in order to bribe the lady with garish jewelry of dubious provenance. There were many relatives who would have wanted the same opportunity, Mrs. Makepeace had said.

"I won't be footing the bill for her Come-Out, mind. But she can come with me to the place I frequent," Lady Islington had told her parents.

And so she obediently trotted behind lady Islington to every function she attended, looking less like a fashionable cousin of equal standing and more like an impoverished relation or servant.

Today, there was another girl sitting next to her, with a pinched, white face, looking quite as though she would have liked to squeeze into the dark corner behind Tempest.

Tempest offered a small smile and was rewarded by a tentative one in return.

"Hello," the girl said to Tempest, moving her chair closer.

Tempest saw that the girl was a debutante, if her white muslin gown and necklace of seed pearls were any indication.

"Are you...Are you making your Come-out also?" the girl asked. "That is, it's my second Come-out, only I've never seen you before."

"I'm afraid I'm not out," Tempest said ruefully. "I'm only accompanying my relative, Lady Islington."

The girl looked nonplussed at this revelation, then undecided. "Then you are a paid companion," she said, and Tempest felt something in the other girl withdraw.

"No, I'm visiting," Tempest said, a bit coolly.

"Oh, I see," the girl said, looking abashed and pinched again. Then she said, "I'm Sarah Manning. Would...Would you like to be friends?"

She sounded so tentative, so certain she would be rejected that Tempest relented. "Yes, of course," Tempest said, warmly. "I'm Tempest Makepeace."

A group of elegantly and elaborately dressed young ladies that had been in the room moved into their corner to chat.

"Diamonds are quite, quite de trop, you know," one young lady said in a high fluting voice. "Colored gemstones are the thing. Do see what my papa gave me before we left for the Season."

The other ladies and Tempest and Sarah looked obediently at the ruby necklace on display around the young lady's neck. They all murmured flattering noises.

"I-It's lovely," said Sarah in a louder voice.

The conversation between the ladies stopped, and the ruby lady turned to look down on them with a cold, white face. "Yes?"

Tempest saw that Sarah had used up her bravery for the moment. "She said it's lovely," Tempest said.

"And you are..." the lady trailed off in a very supercilious way and snapped open a fan.

As Sarah seemed to have retreated behind a wall of wide-eyed muteness, Tempest spoke up. "Tempest Makepeace and Sarah Manning, if you please."

"Ah," said the young lady with raised eyebrows and turned her back on them. "Never heard of them," she said offhandedly to her companions.

"Oh, Elsa, go on about your trip to The Hall," gushed another lady with envy and enthusiasm.

"Yes, do," came a chorus of female voices.

"That's a better present than the mare my father gave me," said one dissatisfied looking girl with a snub nose. "I've only been outside of The Hall."

Elsa, the elegant brunette with the rubies, looked pleased. "Yes, well, if my father weren't the Neville Arenberg of the Derbyshire Arenbergs, I doubt I would have been invited. And Lord Talleyrand, Lord Marchmont, Lord Rochefort, and Lord Nigel were all there."

At this, she gave an expectant glance around and the crowd of girls giggled obligingly at this litany of names.

"My mother has commanded me to attach one of them before the Season is out," said the snub-nosed girl.

"I prefer Lord Rochefort," said one in a giggly whisper. "He's so handsome!"

"But Lord Nigel is by far the most charming. Such a rake though! It is said he has a trio of mistresses at any one time!" This was said in a low whisper.

"I belong only to Dominic Saintignon," announced Elsa loftily. "There's no one on earth but a Saintignon, after all."

"Oh, Elsa," said the envious girl with skinny arms and a large mouth. "I suppose we all want Dominic Saintignon, but he won't look at any of us."

Before the offended Elsa could say a word, there was a flurry at the outer door.

"Oh, you'll never guess! They've come, the Four Horsemen!" said one young lady at a loud whisper that could be heard across the entire room.

Suddenly the room seemed to come alive. Even Sarah seemed to brighten and emerge from her shell.

"The four horsemen?" repeated Tempest.

"They are the four nobles Elsa Arenberg just mentioned," Sarah explained. "I...know I have no chance, but my mother also commanded me to make a push for them. Dominic Saintignon is her number one choice, of course," she said with a wry voice.

"I see," Tempest said, although she didn't see at all, the discussion of too many names and titles flowing over her head. She stood with Sarah to attempt to see over the heads of the people in the salon.

At first she was sure that whoever the Four Horsemen were, they had come and left without her seeing them. Then they entered the room, and a respectful hush swept through the crowd, as though they were in the presence of royalty.

But Sarah had surely said they were aristocrats, not royalty, and she saw some in the front and closest to the entrance sink into low court curtsies.

Then she saw them, and they were assuredly, in this age of a short British population, tall and commanding of presence. But perhaps the presence was due to the fact that everyone turned to face them as they swept through the room, like flowers turning to the sun during the course of a long sunny day. Such abeyance seemed excessive and almost comical.

Of a certainty, the four men that came in were young and dressed in the sort of understated but very definite elegance that came only from wealth. The first one was taller than the rest and she stared a bit longer at him because he wore such an expression of pure bad temper and ill humor, his black brows drawing together over the bridge of his high nose and his mouth curled into a sneer rather than a smile.

I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of that one, she thought to herself.

There was a low murmur as chatting resumed after they moved out of sight. Then they walked back through the room again. This time, a young man who had been tipsily recounting and acting out a story stumbled into the path of the four men.

Talking stopped abruptly.

"Watch it!" the tipsy man said over his shoulder and then stopped dead as he looked up at the dark face of the tallest man. "I say, terribly sorry," he blubbered. "So terribly, terribly sorry," he said, bowing and backing away as though before royalty.

The ill-tempered tall man grabbed a fistful of the cravat of the suddenly stone cold sober man, jerked him up and off his feet.

"Saint," protested a dark-haired man behind him, placing a restraining hand on Saint's arm.

The man called Saint was momentarily distracted by his friend and let go of the cravat without warning so that the tipsy man stumbled and fell on his backside, backing up even as he did so.

"Get out of here," said a long-haired man with Saint to the tipsy man.

There was a collective holding of breath as the Four Horsemen left the townhouse, and then chatting resumed at full volume.

"Dominic Saintignon," said Sarah to an uncomprehending Tempest. "He's the tall man at the front."

"Oh, the bad-tempered one," she said.

"I suppose so, but perhaps the other man shouldn't have stumbled into him like that," explained Sarah.

There was no call for jerking the other man up off his feet by his cravat and then pushing him backwards, Tempest thought to herself, but deemed it politic to keep her views to herself.

Lady Islington came rushing up to Tempest. "Oh, the excitement," she warbled with glowing eyes. "Oh, thrills and chills! Well, Tempest, my girl, they've come and left, so now we can head on home. Everybody's leaving, except for those of them who want to stay and dissect everything."

Tempest introduced Sarah Manning to Lady Islington, who murmured an absent, "Pleased to meet you," and then went on to wonder where the men were off to next.

Tempest smiled at Sarah. "It was nice meeting you," she said.

"Yes, I-I enjoyed talking to you," stammered Sarah. "I hope I'll see you again..."

Tempest felt a rush of affection for this shy, white and pinched girl. She was the first one to have evinced any desire to be friends with Tempest, rather than dismissing her because she was not a debutante.

"I take walks in Hyde Park in the morning most days. At the south gate at nine in the morning," Tempest said. "It's very early, though."

"No, no, indeed it isn't," protested Sarah with bright eyes. "On the morrow then!"

Tempest left the townhouse with a still babbling Lady Islington, feeling a warm glow spread through her insides. Her first London friend!

A/N: I'm attempting to go back and edit previous uploads. Man, there are so many errors. I can't believe nobody has said anything so far. I really appreciate the readers and reviewers for reading this garbled mess!


	2. Chapter 2

The morning dawned misty and gray, but Tempest opened her eyes to a rush of happiness. London no longer seemed like a foreign and hostile place. If Sarah were to remain for the entire Season, outings with Lady Islington no longer held the allure of a hanging. Suddenly Tempest realized that she now had a friend with whom to chat, that she would no longer have to sit propped up against the wall, glassy-eyed, pretending that she enjoyed herself. She hadn't realised how lonely she had been before she met Sarah.

Sarah was waiting for her at the south gate with a maid, whom she sent off once she spied Tempest.

"I thought you'd never come," said Sarah with a shy smile. Today, she seemed far more effusive than the previous evening.

They chatted about various sights in London, and Tempest learned Sarah hailed from Dorset and they talked about what Sarah did as a child by the seaside.

"But my parents are so ambitious," confessed Sarah. "They have this mad idea that should I only exert myself a little more, I could bring myself to the attention of Dominic Saintignon."

"Mine too," admitted Tempest. "That is, their dearest wish is for me to marry above my circumstance." She thought that the dwindling family coffers would be put to better use sending her younger brother to school, or so that her father could learn a trade like her uncle, Mr. Henderson, who was a fairly well-off lawyer. Certainly, they would be better off courting the merchant class than attempting to bridge the gap between they, impoverished gentility, and them, aristocrats with unearned bottomless wealth. Tempest scowled in frustration.

"But, at least my mother couldn't accompany me this time," said Sarah brightly, skipping off the footpath. Suddenly, she stumbled over earth that had been turned over by horse hooves and gave a muffled shriek as she sprawled across the path just as a lone horseman burst into the clearing ahead of a parcel of early morning riders.

The horse reared in agitation. Sarah cowered on the path. The other riders slowed to a halt and drew closer. Their horses whinnied and blew their noses as they trotted in place.

Amid the cries of "whoa!" and "what's amiss?" came an ominously silky voice.

"You useless baggage, do you know who I am?"

Tempest, who had reached out a helpless hand in a useless effort to stop Sarah from falling, fell back a pace. The Four Horsemen with a small entourage of servants and company had arrived.

"Yes, my lord," said a Sarah shaking with fright. "I'm so dreadfully sorry, only I ran out without thinking and I fell."

"Do you know how much I paid for this horse?" continued the deadly voice of Dominic Saintignon.

"N-no, my lord," Sarah gulped.

There was a stillness in the air that prevented Tempest from even breathing.

"Do you know, it's far more than I value half your life." There was an eerie calm in his voice that contrasted with the fury in his glittering hard eyes.

"Saint," came a masculine protest behind him, which he ignored.

"You understand you must be punished for this," he said in a cold, dead voice, holding out a hand, and a liveried man clattered up on a horse and placed a whip in his palm.

"Now," Saintignon said softly, uncoiling the whip between his hands. "Now you shall see what happens when you ruin my morning ride."

Without thinking, Tempest ran out in front of Sarah. "Stop it!" she shouted, her arms outstretched on either side of her.

"Who's that?" she heard someone murmur.

"That's Lady Islington's relation, I think," a voice replied. "That old rip with the scandalous gowns."

"A poor relation, no doubt," Dominic Saintignon sneered, looking down at her with glittering eyes. "This is why I abhor the poor. They think the world is created for all and sundry."

"What has she done?" Tempest demanded hotly, her heart pounding as she spoke. She was faintly aware of Sarah trembling behind her, too stunned and too scared to even move from where she fell. "She's apologized for startling your horse! A gentleman would not behave thus!"

A surprised silence fell on the group and Tempest looked on the mounted riders behind Saintignon, hoping to find a champion among them, but all she could see were cold, impassive eyes.

"What do you think, Nigel? I wager she'll leave town in a fortnight," said the man with longish brown hair that she remembered from the night before.

"That's too generous," said Nigel, the dark haired man who had reached out with a restraining hand the night before. "Rochefort, do you agree with Marchmont? I give her five days. Rochefort? Dash it, where's he gone?"

"Probably to sleep," murmured Marchmont, and a few men and a couple of ladies behind the three Horsemen laughed.

Tempest looked wildly around at the nonchalance of the riders. This is my life they're wagering! she thought with something approaching hysteria.

"What a bore, Saintignon," a woman drawled from behind him.

Saintignon held up a gloved hand as his horse danced on its gigantic hooves. "Indeed, it is a bore," he said in an offhand tone, much as a sleepy judge delivering a sentence. "But I can whip two girls as well as one."

Tempest had read the deadly intent in his black eyes even before he spoke, and she whipped off the shawl from around her neck and threw it full on Saintignon's horse's head. In the ensuing panic as the much aggrieved horse neighed and reared, Tempest grabbed Sarah by the elbow and hauled her up. "Run!" she hissed, and they made for the trees.

She fully expected that whip to come slashing down her back at any moment and hunched her shoulders as she ran for some scant protection, only the sound of Sarah panting next to her keeping her from looking back.

Only when they had stopped in the clump of trees across the distance, panting for breath and certain no one followed, did they share a short laugh of pure relief.

"I thought-I thought," heaved Sarah with short breaths, "I was dead for certain! You saved me, Tempest!"

"He...He wouldn't have done it, I'm sure," said Tempest bravely. "The others behind him would have put a stop to it."

Sarah shook her head sadly. "You haven't been in London that long. The Four Horsemen are powerful and Dominic Saintignon is more powerful than the King. Indeed, some say he is more feared than Napoleon."

"Surely you jest," Tempest said weakly. Napoleon Bonaparte, less a threat in Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble than the immediate effects of Britain's colonial and continental wars, such as food shortages and inflation, was only half-heartedly brought up to bring children into line.

"No, I fear I speak only truth. The last man to cross him was dragged behind four horses to his death! You saw with your own eyes how he treated the gentleman from last night."

"How can such a thing be?" demanded Tempest. "Does the law not exist?"

"The wealthy and powerful are the law."

"But...even dueling is illegal. Should he not have to leave England?"

"The Saintignons are more powerful than you can possibly imagine. It is said that the King himself would be afraid to cross him for it is known they could singlehandedly topple the war in Napoleon's favor. He faced no consequences in the death of that gentleman, you see, for his family hushed up the scandal, and it was put about by the man's own family that he died in a riding accident of his own making."

"Surely there were questions? Someone must have alerted the authorities?"

Sarah shook her head fiercely. "They all look the other way when the name of Saintignon is mentioned. There is nothing in the world to be done once you've brought down the ire of Dominic Saintignon upon your head."

Oh, merciful God in heaven, Tempest thought. And she had defied him in front of others. All she had wanted was to live a quiet and simple life until she could return home!

"What is this?" Lady Islington demanded of her butler at breakfast the next morning. She pointed at a scarlet ribbon lying on the silver platter used to deliver the morning post to her side.

"It was tied to the knocker when I opened the door this morning, milady," replied Holmes with a small bow.

Lady Islington shrieked. "I've been targeted! Holmes, explain this! Oh, I must have crossed the Four Horsemen somehow," she cried. "I must make amends. A present perhaps. No, presents for all of them, yes, that's what I'll do."

Tempest stared at her babbling relation as a dark foreboding wrapped its fist about her neck.

"An it please your ladyship," said Holmes with another bow of his head, "I believe it was the young miss, according to all reports."

Lady Islington swiveled her head to cast a beady glare at Tempest. "Explain yourself, Holmes."

With an expressionless sideways glance at Tempest, Holmes said, "From all reports, it appears as though the young miss caused Lord Talleyrand to fall from his horse. However, I would not credit this rumor as the full truth." His eyes cast towards Tempest were not unsympathetic.

Lady Islington gave a truly horrendous high-pitched scream. "Viper in my nest! Tempest, how can you have done such a thing? Did you not apologize?"

"But...I thought it was Dominic Saintignon that we..."

"You stupid, stupid girl! Do you not know of the Saintignons? Dominic Saintignon is the only son and heir of the Duke d'Auvergne-Talleyrand, and Dominic Saintignon is the Marquis Talleyrand." At Tempest's look of incomprehension, Lady Islington went into a spiel that was clearly memorized and an oft-revisited topic. "The Saintignons go back before the Conquest, and the name Saintignon carries more weight than even that of a dukedom. Anyone in the whole breadth and width of England knows this, that Dominic Saintignon is Saintignon, and his father, The Duke. It is well known that the Saintignons are royally connected all over the civilized world, and in fact, the Duke and Duchess are currently in St. Petersburg with the Russian royal family."

"I see," said Tempest, who was overwhelmed by this sudden historical lesson.

"Dominic Saintignon is the head of the Four Horsemen, along with Viscount Rochefort, the Baron Marchmont, and Lord Nigel, all of whom are powerful men, powerful, wealthy men."

"Is it a club then?"

"It's a moniker, you silly chit! So called because no one ever crosses them without consequence! A red ribbon is always tied to the dwelling of those who crossed them, and Tempest, you have repaid me sore indeed!"

Tempest took a deep breath. "My lady, it grieves me to have brought this upon your head, but I beg leave to inform you that Sarah Manning only but tripped in his path. She was nearly trampled, and immediately she apologized. And in tones quite unbecoming a gentleman, the man informed her she must be punished! Whipped! My lady, surely you must see that he behaved in quite a mad fashion!"

Far from being shocked or outraged by this, Lady Islington said, "Then naturally he must have his way, for Miss Manning should have known better than to venture in Hyde Park during that part of the morning when he was certain to take a ride."

Tempest stared at Lady Islington. "But, whipped...? Like a common dog? Lady Islington-"

"Oh, do hush, girl! You put me quite out of countenance! You know nothing of this world, for if you did, you certainly wouldn't have incurred his wrath! And now, what most I do? Holmes, tell Betty to ready my bags. I must leave for the Continent immediately. Not a moment to waste."

Holmes bowed. "Yes, my lady," he said and disappeared from the room.

"Lady Islington..." Tempest said, slowly rising as the older lady pushed her chair away from the table with a loud screech.

"As for you, my hoity-toity miss, I can only advise you to leave London at once. No, no," she said, half to herself. "If he finds her gone, surely he would pursue me halfway to Italy. Perhaps if she stayed, he can appease his anger. Yes, yes," she said, muttering under her breath as she lurched from the room.

Tempest watched her walk away with befuddled eyes. It was a hard drinking age, she reminded herself. Perhaps the lady had been overindulging?

By the late afternoon, Lady Islington had rattled off in her traveling carriage with her maid, a footman, the butler, and the chef. The rest of the staff was allowed leave.

Tempest watched with bemusement. Surely it was rash of Lady Islington to go so far as to dismiss her servants and run off to the Continent while a war was still waging. But the foibles of society were incomprehensible at best.

"I beg your pardon to speak plainly, miss," Holmes said before he left.

"You have it," she replied.

"You'd best leave town at once, before they come for you," was his commiserating last warning.

Leave town, she thought as she was left in a cold, empty townhouse. Return to Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble? She thought of her parents in their modest country manor, with only a cook, a scullery maid, a housemaid, a pot boy, and a man-of-all-work cum gardener. She thought of how they had sold the Turner from the front parlor in order to pay for the bribe to Lady Islington to take her in for the Season.

If only they knew, she thought. If only they knew how unintelligible and mad this Society is, they surely would not look down on anyone in Upper or Lower Cheltendon!

She thought again of Sarah Manning and her second Come-out, and the funds it would have taken her family. She herself was not out, indeed, the wardrobe it would have taken would be more than their manor house was worth. But all so that Sarah could have a chance to catch the eye of one of the Horsemen? A man who had threatened to horsewhip her for stumbling into his path?

It was lunacy.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day dawned cold and windy, cold in the almost empty Islington townhouse because Tempest had awoken in an unlit room, shivering under the blankets. There was plenty of food left in the larder, and Tempest ate sparingly.

"If I only imagined the entire world had run mad, this is not too terrible an existence," she said aloud and heard her voice echo in the empty house. She cheered when she thought of the days and nights empty of meaningless social events, that was, until Lady Islington returned, if she ever did.

After breakfast, Tempest decided to take her usual walk in Hyde Park, thinking that a good walk would warm her up.

But she wasn't far from the house when a voice cried, loud in the morning quiet, "There she is!"

Tempest turned to see a group of young men dressed in evening finery, slightly rumpled from a night of excess. They seemed a trifle well to go and as she watched in horror, they were pointing at her and running straight towards her.

She took to her heels and fled. Something hit her on her back, and she ducked her head, running for all she was worth back into the house that she had left not so long ago, bolting the door behind her with a gasp. Objects pelted against the door, and she shook with fright. A pane of glass on the front window broke as something was launched against it. She prayed for the onslaught to be over and soon it was.

What on earth had she gotten herself into? she wondered with dazed bemusement.

Tempest stayed inside the house for as long as she could stand, her fury mounting every day that rotten fruit, eggs, and rocks were pelted against the front door. The food in the larder dwindled. She had to visit the Jericho, which was located in the back and because the house was old, the pump was also in the back.

She found out that it had become a game, a game of who could hit the target that was Tempest Makepeace. Players were stationed outside the house and even perched on the fence to take potshots at her should she poke her head through the doorway. Had the servants stayed, they surely would have been hounded in this crazed game. She could only be grateful for some invisible law that prevented them from breaking into the house.

There was a lull in the siege when she stayed indoors for four days straight and she heard shouting outside that hinted that she might be dead or gone. Luckily it happened the day before the sun seemed bright and sunny and Tempest, a prodigious walker, itched to go outside.

She had been wearing her old gowns from Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, and to that she added a hat that looked like a shovel, and muffled up her face she that only two eyes looked out at the world. That day, she found herself able to sneak out at a little after dawn, when the Polite World settled down to sleep, and walked and walked without seeing where she was going.

Tempest found herself on a picturesque bank of the Thames, for once looking beautiful and glassy. It was a bank she had picnicked once with Lady Islington at a picnic breakfast, and she had climbed into a boat rowed by hired men all by herself, knowing that the usual constraints did not apply to her, for no one cared about her reputation. It had been a beautiful day, and she had felt utterly peaceful being rowed down the Thames.

Today, the bank was deserted. Birds chirped to each other, and the sun shone down on the empty riverside.

Tempest glared down at the river, feeling all the anger from being imprisoned in an empty house build up inside her and overwhelming her. She picked up a pebble and hurled it into the river with all her might, shouting, "There, you cad! May your corpse rot and worms eat your flesh!"

"Could you please go somewhere else to do that?" said a plaintive voice behind her.

Tempest jumped five feet into the air and whirled around to see a blond-haired gentleman sitting with his back to a tree. There was something familiar about him, and Tempest stood, chest grabbing, fists clenched, ready to do battle. But the gentleman closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree.

The reason he looked so familiar, she realized with a sinking heart, was that she had seen him before. + He was one of the Four Horsemen, the one called Rochefort. Viscount Rochefort, that was it. The one who had been missing the day of the fateful horse ride through the park, who was presumed to have been sleeping.

Tempest looked around for a weapon, a rock. She stooped and held a stick in her hand, glaring at him.

"I hope you won't poke me in the eye with that," the man said without opening his eyes. He was almost reclining against the tree, so still that she understood why she hadn't seen him. His hair was a curious blend of blond so light it was almost silver, and straight, falling over his eyes.

"You," she said, breath heaving. "You're one of them. The Four Horsemen."

He didn't respond.

"Well?" she demanded.

He yawned. "So boring and so loud."

"Are you going to persecute me then?" she said.

"I really can't be bothered," he replied, not opening his eyes.

Tempest stared at him for a long time, during which he didn't move except to tilt his head into a better position. He seemed so unthreatening that she gathered her skirts around her and sat on a large rock to soak in the sun. Heat, wonderful heat, seeped into her, hear that had been missing in that cold townhouse for as long as she could bear it to wait her tormentors out.

She stared cautiously at him, but he didn't move. He looked as different from Dominic Saintignon as day from night, as peaceful as Saintignon was choleric, from his very light coloring to the curve of his mouth. It suddenly struck Tempest that he was the one entitled the most handsome of the Horsemen by the ladies the night she met Sarah.

And, she reasoned, if there was one person in London who belonged to that horrible club and didn't want to torment her, it stood to reason then that Dominic Saintignon was in all probability acting alone, and the amorphous blob of terror chasing her was not as enormous as she had previously envisioned.

"I suppose you know that your friend has set all of London upon me and that the Four Horsemen are trying to hound me out of town?" she asked, with a sarcastic inflection on the word "friend."

"I'm not interested in other people's affairs," he said lazily. "Although I do recommend that you leave town."

"I'm not just going to run away simply because a nasty aristocrat wants to make trouble for me," she said. "My parents sent me here for the Season." She wondered if he would tell Saintignon, and whether or not it would have any effect.

He yawned. "I don't care," he stated simply.

And perhaps, she was wrong in thinking he wasn't her enemy after all. It was all an aristocrats' game, one in which only ennui drove them.

After an half hour of the two of them sitting silently a little ways from each other, Tempest rose. It was, strangely, the most peaceful day she had had since the Hyde Park incident.

Because the day passed without incident, Tempest was lulled into a false sense of security and ventured out the next day, weeding through the streets toward Hyde Park. She saw with surprise the familiar figure of Sarah Manning.

Sarah was with her maid and looking exceptionally small and forlorn. As soon as she saw Tempest, she turned and spoke a few words to her maid. This time, the maid said, loud enough to be heard by Tempest, "No, miss, it's not safe to be seen with her, as I've told you time and again, and it's more than my hide is worth to leave you be as I did the last time."

But Sarah pleaded with her and the maid retreated a pace to survey them, her fixed eyes never leaving their figures.

"Oh, Tempest, I'm terribly sorry this has happened," said Sarah, eyes flooding with tears. "Have you...Have you been much troubled?"

"Rocks and eggs pelted at me, as though I were an unsatisfactory performer," Tempest said, making light of the events of the week.

"I-I've come every day, hoping to see you. I suppose it's difficult for you to go anywhere," Sarah said, handing her a folded paper. "This has been circulating around, you see."

Tempest unfolded the paper to find a flier with ink fresh from the presses, with a bad rendering of her likeness. She read it with her breath indrawn. _Wanted: dead or alive._

Dominic Saintignon, she thought with seething fury, all this because I refused to let you whip a poor innocent girl? This, this contemptible hounding and persecution, simply because someone had opposed him?

"I...I could go and offer to be punished by him," Sarah said haltingly. "Only..."

"No," Tempest said, eyes blazing. "In any case, it wasn't you who's caused this mayhem. And I don't think for a moment he would stop tormenting me if you offered yourself up as sacrifice."

"Yes, that thought occurred to me," Sarah said with obvious relief.

"Miss," the maid said, coming up to them, looking flustered. "They're coming, I heard them."

Sarah turned to Tempest with wide eyes. "Oh Tempest, you better run for it. It's said that Dominic Saintignon was incensed no one has been able to drag you out from hiding. I'm so, _so_ sorry, Tempest. Words could never express..."

"It's all right," Tempest said. "You'd better leave me. It won't do for you to be caught talking to me. I'll be all right," she said again, half to herself as she dove into the trees to cut across Hyde Park.

As she half ran and half walked, Tempest remembered her friend, Yolanda Cummings, in Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble. Yolanda had run afoul of the Ross brothers, who had bullied her fiercely and deemed it a lark to pose as highway and hold up her family carriage, causing the carriage to overturn in a ditch. They had claimed innocence, and due to their position as the nephews of the local magistrate, they had almost gotten off without reprisal.

But Tempest had not been able to countenance the smugness of the brothers, who had continued to make life hell for Yolanda.

I didn't stand for it that time, she thought to herself with lips firmed, and I certainly won't stand for it this time!

She had almost reached the entrance of the Park when she heard a hunting cry of "halloo!" Turning her head, she saw a group of five men in hunting jackets, one of whom pointed straight across at her.

Tempest was completely out of breath when they caught up with her. They curled her early as she stopped at them with her umbrella. One man lunged toward her, and as she poked the umbrella toward him, he feinted to the side and pinned her arms at her sides from her back.

"Grab her legs," the man ordered, and they dragged her off the footpath.

"Mmmnph!" she grunted through one man's hand over her mouth and kicked out with a foot, catching one of the men in the stomach.

"Grab her feet," one man said. "She's like a wildcat!"

The man with his hand over her mouth drew back sharply as her teeth sank into his fingers.

"Watch!" Tempest shouted when she found her mouth free. "Help! Watch! Watch!"

"Get her!" the man nursing his hand shouted.

She hadn't made it far before she was hauled back.

"You won't get away with this," she threatened, glaring up at one of the men with blazing eyes. She realized that she had seen him before. "I know you..." she said slowly. She had seen him before at various society events. Her heart pounded as though it would burst from her chest. A gentleman...? It was worse than she thought possible, to be accosted in broad daylight in the King's park, by a gentleman!

"He said you're no better than you ought to be," the man sneered, as the other four men pinned her down on the ground. "Well, we'll find out!"

"Hey, what's this?" a voice called.

The men on top of her paused. She felt a flurry of movement and one man saying, "Move along, do, it's nothing to do with you."

"I'm sorry I must interfere," said the soft voice that Tempest thought sounded familiar. She twisted up and yelled, "Help me!" before she was held down again.

"Turn around, Rochefort, and walk away. The order came from Saintignon himself," she heard.

Then came the sounds of a scuffle and a muffled, "He'll hear about this!"

Then Tempest was released and she scrambled to her feet, huffing for breath, and looking around for a weapon. She saw that two men were lying on the ground, unmoving, and the others were nowhere to be seen.

She backed away from Lord Rochefort, who was looking as calm and remote as though he had been for a walk in the park, though he surveyed his right fist ruefully.

"Have you-come to-finish the job?" Tempest asked, almost out of breath.

Rochefort considered her with impassive light blue eyes. "I don't care for such things," he said. He looked down at his torn glove and regretfully took it off, tossing it on the prone body of one of the men.

"Are they...dead?" Tempest asked.

He gave a short laugh. Unlike her, he looked as put-together as if he had nothing more exerting than raised an eyebrow. "Hardly." Then, as though he had completely lost interest, he turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" Tempest yelled and limped after him. "I must thank you for saving me."

He gazed down at her without emotion. "Hardly. I just don't care much for such means."

Tempest watched him walk away with a sudden lurch in her chest. Surely, here was a man who was a gentleman, who talked to her without condescension, who differed from the rest of Society.

It's nothing, she thought as she hugged herself for warmth. It's only been so long since anyone's shown me kindness or treated me like an equal.

As she limped home, she forced herself to relive the past few hours. She had heard...Yes, she had heard the men say "Saintignon." If so, did that mean Dominic Saintignon was behind the attack on her? That the fliers and the constant barrage of garbage at her were not simply the foibles of the ton, but orchestrated solely by him?

If so, he was lower than low. He didn't deserve to be called a gentleman.

A thought struck her. In fact, London was undoubtedly filled by many of his victims. She thought of the tipsy man of so many nights ago who had apologized abjectly and had been roughly picked up and pushed back like so much rubbish.

Scum, she thought. He was utterly debased, a useless, power-hungry scoundrel of the highest order.

The more she thought, the angrier she got, until she found her limp gone and that she was stomping home.

Dominic Saintignon, I'll show you!


	4. Chapter 4

The situation was far worse than she had imagined. The talk was all over London, and even as unfashionable as Tempest sought to be, it was persistent enough and loud enough that even she could not help hearing the latest on-dit. For Tempest Makepeace had not only defied Saintignon, but caused his horse to toss him on the ground. The talk was far more exaggerated, of course. In the rumors, Tempest heard that she had struck him on the face with his own whip. Closely accompanying the rumors were the wagers on the outcome of Saintignon's rage on her life, gleefully discussed in polite company, as though, Tempest thought resentfully as though her life were less than livestock to be butchered for meat.

Tempest decided there was no point in staying on Curzon Street, waiting to be mobbed by Saintignon's faithful followers. No, she would take the battle to him.

So she searched through the house and found articles of clothing belonging to the servant girls, items that she would never have dreamed of touching had she not sunk to this level. Even when she was hiding out, she hadn't thought it a war, but only something to be endured, much like needlepoint.

But now, she searched through the servants' quarters until she found a simple black garb and a muslin cap. She thought, after putting it on, that she made a very credible maid indeed, even though the thought was depressing.

She had heard that Saintignon frequented White's, the male scion of Torydom in London, and made her way there cautiously at one in the afternoon the following days. By ducking her head low and moving in a scuttling fashion, she found she was virtually invisible.

It was on the third day that she found her target, for coming out of White's at two in the afternoon were Saintignon, Lord Nigel, Lord Marchmont, and Rochefort.

Saintignon, as was habitual, walked in front, his brows drawn down low across the bridge of his nose in an expression of perpetual dyspepsia. She was so focused on him that she saw nothing and nobody else.

She was so intent on her goal that she only half listened to their conversation.

"-a bore," Lord Nigel was saying.

"What's interesting is that Makepeace chit. What's been happening there, Saint?" drawled Marchmont.

"Thanks to Rochefort, I wasn't able to-"

"Speak of the devil," Lord Nigel was saying. Tempest found he was peering in her direction. "Isn't that-"

But Tempest had moved forward. "Saintignon, you're not worthy of the name of gentleman!" she shouted, and she swung out with her reticule and it struck him full on the temple. It was a giant thing, filled with coins, apples she had bought at a costermonger just that morning, and a book of Lady Islington's she had to return to the circulating library.

Full of mounting fury, she hardly noticed the resounding thwack it made against the side of his head, and she hardly noticed when he stumbled backwards and was supported by the arms of his friends. She jabbed him in the stomach and as he doubled over, She was intent only on her anger and she looped a length of red ribbon around his neck and and yanked so that it formed a noose around his neck.

"You are the one who should be eliminated from this town!" she yelled, and before the men could recover, she had run off.

Tempest had made it to the next street before she slowed. What folly! What utter folly! she thought, and yet it had felt like the most satisfying thing she had done this age. If only she had had the courage to pull and pull until she could see Saintignon gasping for air-No. Tempest shook her head to clear her mind of such wicked temptation. She could never have done #that. But oh, how she had wanted to.

The next morning saw a change in Tempest as the victory from the night before set in.

She dressed in her own clothing, and when she emerged from the townhouse, it was with boldness. When men shouted, "There she is!" and she spied men jumping from behind carriage to throw rotten vegetables at her, she jerked out the meat cleaver that she had secreted in her ever handy reticule.

"Come closer!" she shouted, batting away a flying tomato with the meat cleaver. She advanced on the men-boys, really. "I'll show you a horsewoman's power!"

One young man, no older than eighteen, yelped and dropped the cabbage in his hand and dove back into the carriage, shouting,  
"God's hounds, she's gone stark raving mad!"

He drove off so suddenly that he left his companions standing in the street, one of which ran off. Another's eyes widened when he saw the gleaming meat cleaver she had filched from the kitchen, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water.

She couldn't help the surge of satisfaction as she advanced on him, waving the meat cleaver in the air for emphasis. "Are you going to throw that?" she asked, gesturing at the egg in his hand.

He gulped and looked down. "No-er, n-n-no, ma'am," he said, slowly bending and setting the egg on the ground, never taking his wide, scared eyes off her.

"And will you be throwing any more?" she asked, advancing still on him and pointing the cleaver right under his nose.

His eyes followed the cleaver. "N-n-no, no, never, never thought of doing s-such a thing."

"Then I think you had better run and tell your friends that Saintignon's met his match, and that anyone coming around here will get a mouthful of my cleaver and my hunting rifle," she said ominously.

The youth whimpered and backed away slowly before breaking into a hell-for-leather sprint.

It was hardly the most prudent thing to do, Tempest thought. But considering the fact that living up to her name had availed her of nothing, she decided that bearding the lion as per her habits of old couldn't make matters worse. And she had been right. Acting like a quivering, cowardly lady has accomplished nothing. Waving a meat cleaver in the air and running at her adversaries had made them all back down!

The following day, she discovered the tale of her attack on Saintignon and the story of the meat cleaver had made its way across London. She expected she would be shunned, for her behavior was hardly ladylike or politic or even sane.

But then, she was hardly living in a sane world.

"Miss Makepeace," a gentleman hailed her from across the street as she boldly opened the door the following day. He hurried up to her with a wide smile. "Miss Makepeace, you're a heroine! I heard of your actions and may I say that you have inspired me, greatly inspired me! I beg leave to ask you to become my muse!"

It was the tipsy man of the rout so long ago. She nodded dazedly at him and he darted off quickly. She heard him say to his compatriots, "What a thrill! I actually spoke to that Amazon of a woman, and quite a lady she was too!"

She was accosted all the way to the park and back, but nary a sign of violence this time. It was as though she had become a celebrity virtually overnight. From anonymity, she had blossomed into a national savior.

So she had not been wrong, she thought. Saintignon has enemies.

But the enemies were far and few in between.

Tempest found she was given the cut direct by all ladies.

"La, there she goes, mother. Can you imagine why she's still in town?" she heard from a young miss.

"Look away, Penelope," came the reply. "We don't want it getting back to Saintignon that we support such vulgar actions."

But Tempest found that words had little effect after the physical barrage top which she had been exposed. The few supporters she had, who darted up to her smothered with scarves to hide her identity, were enough for her.

Since her life began to resume normally, Tempest found herself walking towards the river Thames one morning and halted abruptly when she heard the notes of song ring through the air. She moved haltingly forward. A flute, yes, a flute, with its sweet music floating wistfully in the morning air.

Somehow she was not surprised to see Lord Rochefort lying in his old spot under the tree, not asleep this time, but playing a small flute with surprising skill.

When he reached a lull in his song, Tempest moved forward into his line of vision and sat gingerly on the rock she had occupied the last time. "It's beautiful, your music," she said quietly.

He gazed up at her with those strange and beautiful dispassionate eyes that fell away and left her feeling bereft. "It's nothing."

When she didn't say anything for a while, he said gently, "You know, I do come here to be alone."

She cleared her throat. "I...I just wanted to thank you properly. If you hadn't saved me that time..."

"It's nothing," he repeated in a bored voice. "Really, I'm beginning to think you're following me. I hope you're not going to pick up that distasteful habit, otherwise I'll really regret saving you."

"No, I..." Tempest found she was at a loss for words. Somehow his presence was so calming that his words should have been hurtful, but weren't. "I hope...I hope we can be friends."

"I daresay that would be unlikely," he replied without inflection, and then with a lithe movement, sprang to his feet and sauntered off.

Somehow even that did not faze her. Despite his cold words, she thought, he was the one to step in and save her. He spoke to her next to the river without attacking her or belittling her.

Then, there was his music.

It has surprised her, moved her. It didn't seem like the music of a beast like Saintignon. It was the music of a poet.

She walked slowly back to Curzon Street. Tempest had planned to leave town the following day. The townhouse was empty of servants and of life. Her goal of tying Saintignon's own red ribbon back on him has been accomplished. She had, moreover, ruined her own reputation, which might have been Saintignon's goal in the first place. There was nothing left for her here.

But...

An image of Lord Rochefort's impassive face appeared unbidden in front of Tempest's eyes.

If she returned to Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, it was certain she would never see him again.

Was she then betting on staying just for glimpses of him? Was she that foolish?

Tempest was within sight of the townhouse when a carriage rattled to a halt next to her. She failed to react immediately when the doors opened and no stairs were let down.

Without preamble of any kind, Tempest was jerked off her feet and bundled inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Prudence was being abducted. She kicked and screamed, but a velvet bag had been tossed over her head and ropes were being wound around her, binding her arms to her sides.

She was terrified. Oh God, she prayed fiercely, let me out of this and I'll...I'll do good works. Outwardly, she stopped screeching and said, "Please, take the hood off my face. I won't scream. I promise."

There were grunts but no words were exchanged.

"I'll pay you anything. Please, have mercy. This thing you are doing surely goes against every Christian moral," she pleaded, hoping that her abductors did have Christian moral fiber.

There was no response.

"If we're almost there, please take the hood off my face...I can hardly breathe," she said, panting a little as though for air for emphasis. "He surely...wants the pleasure of killing me...himself."

"Oi reckon it won't do naught to let 'er 'ave a bit'uv sure," muttered a gruff and near incomprehensible voice.

Prudence's heart sank when she heard the common accents. Saintignon hadn't resorted to gentlemen this time but had hired ruffians to do his dirty deeds. It boded ill for the likelihood of her coming out of this alive. Saintignon was truly the devil, she thought. Her only comfort was that surely he would burn in hell for all eternity and that he would be most certainly be suspected for her murder.

"Na, Jimmy, we're almost there," replied a second voice, "and I'm fair det'minded to get me blunt."

The carriage had indeed been rattling at a mad pace and then they slowed. Prudence felt a glimmer of hope. They couldn't have left London. At the very least, Saintignon hadn't been about to sell her aboard a ship heading for unknown colonies. Prudence refused to dwell on more gruesome possibilities.

The carriage stopped, and the doors were opened. Instead of being helped down the stairs, she was lifted and carried, twisting and struggling again, on top of the men's shoulders.

"In here," ordered a new voice, female this time. Prudence found herself on her feet and blinking as the hood was taken off her head. The ropes had disappeared at some point, and Prudence was staring at a line of female servants in uniforms in an richly appointed room with exquisitely colored rugs and rich portraits all along an enormous hall.

One older woman seemed to be in charge and ordered her to be stripped. Prudence struggled but the servants were exceedingly efficient. Within minutes, she found herself stripped, plunged into a hot bath, then dried, and dressed.

Hands pulled and poked at her from every direction. Prudence had the presence of mind to deal with one assault before another started. She wasn't even able to enjoy the luxury that was the bath, with its endless supply of piping hot water at the ready, an extravagance that demanded burly footmen that carted the bathtub into the bedchamber and then a long line of servants carrying buckets of water to fill it up.

She was dimly aware at some point that someone named Monsieur Andre was snipping at her hair with scissors, and she gasped for air when she was strapped into a corset that squeezed every single breath of air from her lungs and had her standing straighter than she had ever done in her life.

Then it was over and she was led in front of a person. Prudence had to look twice to make sure it was herself.

"I-what...what's happened?" she asked, touching her abdomen and seeing the figure in the tall mirror move in synchronization. The figure in front of her was elegantly and elaborately attired in a royal blue evening gown with three flounces at the hem. Small seed pearls had been embroidered on the very fabric of the gown, and over it, she wore a sleeveless blue and silver striped pelisse of mulled silk with a lace collar so fine that it appeared to be almost a cloud. A sapphire necklace set in diamonds hung around her neck and matching earbobs dangled from her earlobes. Similar bracelets encircled both her wrists.

Her dark brown hair had been cut and restyled by the master hairdresser Monsieur Andre, whom Prudence just realized was the leading stylist in London, and her hair more curled charmingly on her forehead and an elaborate hairstyle of cascading curls fell over one shoulder, with glimpses of seed pearls flashing in the pomaded hair.

They had done something to her face, too, and the skin looked supple and glowing, the dark circles from sleepless nights vanished.

She had never seen herself look so...pretty.

"You look very fine, miss," said the older female servant. "You could be exceedingly beautiful all the time, in fact, just you mind you bathe your face with lemon juice and lard extract."

"What am I doing here?" she asked the servant, although she almost was unable to take her eyes off herself.

"The young master will tell you, I'm sure," the woman said and led her through a door into a connecting saloon.

Prudence gazed around her at the unmitigated wealth of the room. A hearty fire blazed at the fireplace at one end, cozily and expensively heating the large room. Candles blazed from every direction and flowers created a heady scent. Rich curtains covered one entire wall, and the opposite paneled wall bore well-executed oils. The floor was covered with thick carpets, and there was a hush throughout the room and, indeed, the entire dwelling, that spoke of wealth. In the clatter and constant noise of London, this gigantic place hummed with silence, silence only true wealth could afford.

She saw on a side table there was a framed miniature, and she picked it up. It was a rendering of four boys in shorts, a boy with black curly hair, a dark, haired boy, a boy with light brown hair, and a silver-haired boy with a solemn expression.

"Lord Rochefort," she murmured, touching his face in the miniature. "So that's what you look like as a boy."

"Rochefort?" a deep voice repeated. "Do you hold a tendre for Rochefort?"

Prudence whirled around to see her nemesis, Dominic Saintignon, regarding her from beneath those black slashing brows. From where he appeared, she did not know, only she felt he had been watching her for a long time, so fixed were his eyes on her.

The first thing that struck her was his satanic ensemble of all black, and she noted with alarm that he looked even larger than she had remembered after her victory over him the last they met. Only a small gash on the side of his cheek where she had struck him gave her reassurance. After all, the devil didn't bleed.

The second was that he was far younger up close than she had supposed him to be, and today he even looked slightly uncertain of himself, especially when she immediately went to the other side of the console.

He stopped in his tracks, looking nonplussed by her action.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked through thinned lips, gripping the miniature with a hand that showed white at the knuckles.

Instead of responding, he strolled casually over to the opposite wall and pointed at a large oil. "My sister," he said casually.

Prudence was distracted by his civil tone and looked where he pointed. The oil depicted a beautiful young lady with dark coloring and the same slashing brows as Saintignon. "She's very beautiful," she said.

"Naturally," he said disdainfully and turned to survey her. He casually strolled towards her, running those dead eyes up and down her figure before his mouth quirked into his customary contemptuous sneer.

"And tonight, I have proved that even you, in your bourgeois way, can be an attractive woman, although nowhere in the same league as a Saintignon."

Prudence was too rattled to be offended. I beg your pardon?"

He gestured an arm to encompass her ensemble. "Can you not guess what it is I refer? Very well, here it is. I have decided to extend to you the honor of my patronage. I have decided to be magnanimous towards you, given the poverty of your antecedents. That is to say, I will allow you to be part of my court."

Tempest stared at him. Whatever she had expected him to say at this juncture, it certainly had not been this. She was struck dumb by incomprehension.

"You shall be allowed to accompany me to places I designate." He smiled arrogantly down at her silent and mulish expression. "What's the matter? Haven't I impressed you with my condescension? Are you not honored by my offer? Am I not generous?"

Tempest suddenly found her voice. "Are you bound for Bedlam? You nearly had me killed and now you think to win me over by snatching me off the streets of London?"

"Naturally, you had to be outfitted accordingly if you are to be seen anywhere with me. Your apparel...such as it was, was a disgrace to the name of woman," Saintignon replied, with an arrogant lift of his brows. "They were ugly and beyond saving. They marked you as a poor relation. But now that you have my patronage, you shall dress accordingly and as pleases me. From now on, this is how you must attire yourself at all times. I particularly detest the frock you had on earlier."

She shook her head in bemusement. "I-can't seem...Is this your way of offering a gently bred girl a morally demeaning position?"

"Dear me, what a suspicious mind you have," he smirked. "And with such a deficiency of physical assets, I'm afraid you are far from qualifying to being in any man's keeping."

Her face bright red with both the plain speaking and his insults, she carefully set down the miniature. She thought that she would love to hurl it at his head, except that it was an exceptional piece of artwork. She was also slowly coming to the realization that she was not about to be whipped or raped. Instead, it seemed that, strange though it might be, Saintignon was desirous of winning her over? Why? To preserve face, undoubtedly. She had made an utter and public fool out of him and well he knew it!

"And, pray tell, what satisfaction do you get out of this, sir? Considering that my attributes are few and deficient, I could hardly do you credit by becoming part of your court!" she said sarcastically.

He lost the arrogant smirk. "I offer you the chance to raise your name from out of the gutter, to be seen with me, a Saintignon. Kindly recognize the very depths to which I am sinking in so benevolent a gesture and repay me with a little gratitude."

"Well, _kind sir_ , I must refuse your most magnanimous offer," she said with exaggerated civility. "I find it impossible to credit that the man who wished to horsewhip me now wishes to elevate me in society! Elevate me in society! When you have driven off my chaperone! Ruined me beyond belief! Only because an innocent girl happened to stumble into your path! You are the lowest of all that is low and base in this world, and I shall proclaim it before deigning to seek your favor. Faugh! You think your money and your station elevates you in any manner? They have been nothing you have earned and they only whitewash a sepulchre!"

Tempest paused to draw breath and stared at his white, rigid face. She felt a fury burning deep within her, raging hotter with every word she threw out. "What, shall I receive my horsewhipping now, you coward? I daresay it more desirable than your patronage!"

He seemed nonplussed by her passionate barrage and rocked back on his heels, blinking as though he could not fathom a rejection of his patronage. "You..refuse? You, who have nothing!" he said with some amazement.

"Because of my poverty? My lack of status? And you, I suppose, have it all."

"Indeed, yes," he said, gesturing the room with one hand. "Say the word and I can procure it. There is nothing that power and riches cannot obtain."

The arrogance was back. She saw that he truly believed what he said.

"Do you desire the rarest of diamonds? I can have England's premier jeweller here in less than an hour with a selection. Do you desire a selection of the rarest out of season blooms? My servants can have this room filled within a day. Do you crave sweetmeats or pastry? My chefs work around the clock to tempt my appetite. There is nothing," he said cruelly, lowering his eyelids to half mast to gaze down his aristocratic nose at her, "that cannot be bought by me."

"There is something," she said with a curled lip. "My gratitude for what should never be bartered!"

Then, spurred by the fury at the egregious wrongdoing thus far perpetrated against her, she walked past him and out the door through which they had entered.

Two footmen in livery standing outside the door brought her up short. They blocked her way. "My lord?" queried one of them in a deferential manner.

She looked back into the room at Saintignon only once. She stood with her back resolutely to him, hands in fists at her sides, not moving from her stance. She had a faint image of him standing where she had left him, brooding eyes staring at her from beneath dark brows before he made some gesture that had the footmen backing away from her.

Madness, Tempest thought as she made her way from the opulent room. Pure, utter madness. That surely was Saintignon's underlying issue and what nobody had dared to speak aloud. And she had so boldly defied him to his face! Now, with a clearer head than she had presented back in their confrontation, Tempest moved more cautiously toward the front hall, wary in case she were stopped and punishment exacted for refusing a Saintignon's offer.

She found herself in another gallery instead of the great hall. But as she did not exactly remember what the receiving room had looked like, that was hardly to be marveled. Tempest could not help but be awed by this unadulterated display of wealth. Every room she passed was decorated as though expecting the Prince Regent to visit at any time. Nor was there a room, like her humble house had had, kept for best, and others, seldom used, kept closed up, unheated, and sparsely furnished. She had visited many houses during the course of the season with Lady Islington, and many were grand. But none had the opulence and scale of servants that it must surely take to run this estate in the heart of London.

The gallery she peered in now housed a number of sculptures and statues, as well as paintings hung high and low. At the opposite end of the long room was a large oil that immediately caught the eye, taking up the entire wall, which was several storeys high. The subject matter could only be the current Saintignon family, the duke looking stiff and expressionless, the duchess a haughty beauty with hard eyes and the dark coloring she passed to her children, Saintignon and his older sister. But while the older sister looked determined in a pretty, vibrant way, Saintignon wore his customary sneering look of perpetual rage that was visible clear across the enormous hall.

She gazed at his drawn together black brows and wondered in disgust at how Elsa Arenberg could have preferred this man to Lord Rochefort, or indeed anyone else. Certainly, his wealth was apparent. But there were so many others in town for the Season who were, if not as overtly rich, sufficiently well off. Was money along enough to gild the rotten lily that was Saintignon? She did not believe so.

There was a sudden movement in the hall and Tempest moved behind a sculpture to avoid being detected. But there didn't seem to be the rushed movement of servants or the clatter of cleaning. Rather, there was a slow, measured footfall, a masculine footfall, without the rustle of fabric.

Tempest peered around the statue of one of the Saintignon's ancestors astride a horse. She almost exclaimed in shock. For, speak of the devil, there was Lord Rochefort himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Her heart beating faster, she surveyed him. Had he come to find her? No, he seemed to be genuinely engrossed in the contents of the gallery, which, Tempest now saw seemed to contain family mementos rather than famous artwork. There was a rather glorious marble bust of a young girl atop a post that had Lord Rochefort completely absorbed. Tempest wondered why Lord Rochefort was here. Was it only to stare upon that sculpture? And _whose_ sculpture was it? There was a soft expression upon Lord Rochefort's face that made Tempest's heart sink down to her stomach. A gentle, tender expression of utter captivation.

She felt as though she simply had to know whose statue that was, and who the tribute was to Lord Rochefort. She felt she had to interrupt his silent memorial of the young girl. Was she dead? No, his expression and manner was not of bereavement, but of yearning. He had reached out a hand to touch the marble profile, his fingers trailing from her forehead lightly down her nose to rest on those cold lips.

"Lord Rochefort," she said suddenly into the stillness of the room. But if she hoped to startle him, she didn't succeed. Lord Rochefort didn't move from his silent perusal.

"You again," Lord Rochefort said with a sigh. "You do turn up wherever I am."

But having been grabbed by strange men twice in as many days, this show of coldness reassured rather than repelled. "I...was compelled to come here at Saintignon's...behest," she said.

Lord Rochefort did look at her then. "Ah, yes, I see that he has been making you over."

She stiffened. "Does he...often snatch women off the streets and tailor them to his specifications?" she asked through stiff lips.

Lord Rochefort considered her with cool blue eyes. "Not often, no. In fact, I would say that _never_ would be more apt."

"How lucky am I," she said bitterly. "But how came you to be here?"

"I live not far from here, and having grown up together, this is almost a second home to me."

"Is that sculpture also of a childhood friend?" she asked, throwing caution to the winds.

For a while, she thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he smiled faintly, "Yes, a childhood friend. Come, I'll send you home in my carriage."

 _Stupid, silly girl_ , Tempest scolded herself. But she admitted to herself that the encounter with Lord Rochefort and his unexpected percipient kindness were the reasons she could not bring herself to leave London.

What was there left for her in London? Nothing. Truly, there was nothing left. Her name was worse than mud; she could not hope to even dine in society now. She had very little pin money left. If she left it very much longer, she could not even hope to buy a stage ticket to as far as Newmarket, from which she would need to walk and beg a ride to Upper Cheltondon-on-the-Trumble.

And yet there was one thing holding her back. A truly impossible dream. The image of Lord Rochefort's smile replayed in her mind on a comforting and also self-flagellating loop. That small part of her mind refused to quash down a glimmer of hope.

Maybe. Just maybe. Was it possible?

She found herself taking long walks down to the Thames in order for the chance to bump into him.

After all, she told herself, in Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, she never would have come into contact with such a glittering personage as he. Surely the fact that he saved her, and their long chats, and…

Of course, any self respecting gentleman _would_ have saved her in a similar situation, she would remind herself.

And so the tortuous cycle continued, sometimes only broken by the thought that one man would _not_ have saved her like a gentleman, one man who was so far from a gentleman as to set such despicable series of events into action. Then her lips would curl into a sneer of hatred for Dominic Saintignon.

But after three days of strenuous exercise and no opportune meetings, Tempest slowly made her way back to Clarges Street, thinking that she would need to somehow buy a ticket and make her way North back home. She could not believe her eyes when she returned to Clarges Street. A traveling carriage stood in front, the door was open, and trunks were being lifted indoors. Servants matched to and fro in efficient steps, and the house was more alive than it had been in weeks.

"Holmes!" she greeted the expressionless butler. "Is it really you? Is Lady Islington returned at last?"

"Yes, miss," Holmes intoned. "My lady is having tea in her parlor."

Tempest raced upstairs and burst into Lady Islington's parlor unannounced. "Lady Islington," she exclaimed. "You have changed your mind and returned! How very good it is to see you again, how very _very_ good!"

Lady Islington looked to be in rare good humor and did not look askance at Tempest's windblown appearance. "Yes, la, how good it is to be back in civilization! Pray, come sit with me and have a coze. We have been traveling for simply _ages_! But oh, it was most accommodating of him, yes, we are very obliged to my dear Saintignon, for he had ensured us the most pleasant of journeys. You simply have not _traveled_ , my dear girl, until you have traveled under the protection of Saintignon. Oh, the best rooms! Fires blazing at all hours, meals hot and served to us first! Oh, heavenly!"

Tempest stared at Lady Islington in dismay. "Saintignon? He-was behind your return?"

"La, yes! The good man sent his servants after us with an express letter with his seal to bid us return to London on the double! His specific request and favor! I simply knew the dear man had made a mistake. A scarlet ribbon on _my_ door! Tis hardly to be believed, and most obliging of the dear man, too, to send a retinue of servants to bid me return to my rightful place in society. What an amiable, _amiable_ man! Oh, what an on-dit, what a tale! Now, let me see, I must pay several calls immediately and tell my good friends of this turn of fortune. Leave me, Tempest, do, for I've to dress immediately."

A host of questions on her lips, Tempest nonetheless acquiesced and retreated to the door.

"Oh, Tempest, my dear girl," Lady Islington trilled. "Have a maid help you dress; you must come along with me. Let me see, I'll have Bennett send over my blue walking dress. That'll do nicely for you."

Tempest blinked at this show of charity but curtsied and left Lady Islington still happily chattering to herself.

The tide had indeed turned.

Tempest could hardly believe that the society she encountered on her calls with Lady Islington was the same that had ignored her, rebuffed her, then persecuted her. Wishing very much to know more about what had happened between Lady Islington's hasty departure and triumphant return, Tempest had dutifully followed behind the venerable lady only to find that the certain ruin and subsequent cuts she had expected were not forthcoming.

To not be ruined was only the first surprise facing her. To find herself suddenly the center of all attention-favorable attention-was almost beyond her.

"Dear, _dear_ Miss Makepeace," one young lady gushed upon seeing her. "Or...may I call you Tempest? For we are so close I feel formalities to be _de trop_."

Tempest could not recall seeing the lady at all, except...Yes, she has seen her at a ball where the young woman had danced and complained to a young man in her hearing that wallflowers really took up too much room and did no good for absolutely anybody.

"Now we must'nt be greedy, ladies," said a smooth feminine voice at Lady Stanhope's townhouse.

Tempest found herself staring right into Elsa Arenberg's cat-like eyes.

"I've been simply dying to make your acquaintance, Miss Makepeace," the beauty was saying. "My parents are having a ball tomorrow evening. Do say you will come."

Tempest stared at the young woman who had so studiously ignored her and Sarah at the rout not so very long ago. "I will have to ask Lady Islington our schedule," she said civilly. None of her lesions had prepared her for this unprecedented and very late overture. All the invitations for a ball of the size the Arenbergs intended would have been issued months ago.

"Please do. It would simply not be a ball without you there. Everyone is dying to know how you managed to get on such good terms with Lord Talleyrand."

Tempest felt she had been sucked into a cyclone that was swirling around her at increasing rates. Whenever she felt she would be set down to rest, the cyclone picked up again and she was whipped back off her feet. In the past few weeks, she had been ruined, cut, persecuted, kidnapped, and now _feted_? And what good terms with _who?_

"Dominic Saintignon, of course. Yes, we all know about the little jest you both played on society, how he pretended to tie a red ribbon on your door. It is all _very_ amusing, I'm sure. And however did it come about that you should be so acquainted with him?" Elsa was asking.

Tempest's mouth opened and closed. She was certain she resembled a fish out of water, but her brain seemed unable to comprehend what was going on and whatever Elsa was saying. A _jest?_ What jest?

"She's clearly being coy," said the ferrety looking girl Tempest remembered as always being around Elsa. "She's not revealing her secret and I suppose one can't fault her for wanting to hide how she came to be so close with the Four Horsemen."

"Don't heed her in the slightest, Miss Makepeace. Iolanthe is just jealous of your good fortune," said Elsa Arenberg, smiling at her with every appearance of sincerity. "We won't speak of it if it bothers you."

As Tempest could not find the words to discuss what she could not fathom to have happened in the past few days on her walking ritual, she returned the smile with gratitude. "Thank you."

"Well!" Iolanthe said, green eyes flashing, and she flounced away.

"Pray don't mind her," Elsa Arenberg said. "It's only that it's _such_ an _on-dit_ , I suppose no one can quite fathom it."

"Yes," Tempest agreed weakly and was relieved when Miss Arenberg seemed to lose interest in grilling her and began to chat pleasantly about other things for the remainder of their visit.

"My dear!" exclaimed Lady Islington when they had departed and were sitting in their carriage. "Oh my dear, what a coup!"

"What is? What in earth has happened? Why on earth is everyone congratulating me?" Tempest finally demanded.

"Word has it that the fight between you and Saintignon is nothing but a misunderstanding! Nobody believes _that_ , of course, and thinks it far more salacious." Lady Islington fanned herself in frenetic exhilaration. "It really is not the thing for a young debutante to be the root of such talk, of course. But given that it is Saintignon, _everything_ is forgiven! And what a coup for me, indeed, that my protege should have captured his attention!"

Lady Islington slumped back into the carriage cushions with a happy sigh and sparkling eyes. Her cup had indeed run over. She could speak of this for years and years thereafter. She would be invited to all the best events in order that people could know how she had accomplished this match, for surely match it was. Why else would Saintignon have bothered to explain himself? It was unprecedented from the man who cared naught for what other people said or thought.

"Is that how he is attempting to explain his persecution of me?" Tempest said with rising temper.

"Saintignon, Lord Talleyrand is being exceeding magnanimous, my girl, in trying to explain away your ghastly behavior-"

" _My_ ghastly behavior? He tried to whip a girl! A gently bred girl! In broad daylight in a main thoroughfare! Has everyone forgotten? And when I pleaded for mercy, he turned his wrath on me, Lady Islington. Then when it looked as though he could not cow me by his cowardly actions, he had henchmen kidnap me and brought to his home-"

Lady Islington gasped. "When was this?"

"A few days after your departure. And he scared you, Lady Islington, he tried to intimidate you into leaving town, your home!"

Lady Islington seemed not to have heard this last part and focused on the kidnapping. "He had you taken to his home? Are you certain? The great mansion on -Street?"

"I was unaware of the address since a sack was thrown over my head, but I assume he resided there, as it was decorated by all manner of family portraits. That-"

Lady Islington gasped again and leaned forward. "Too delicious by half! He has _never, ever_ personally invited any young lady to his residence."

"I would hardly call what happened to me an invitation! He has ruined me!"

"Oh my, oh my. Well, he has compromised you beyond a doubt, but we shall have to keep that to ourselves for the time, lest he fails to come up to scratch! But afterwards, oh yes, afterwards…" Lady Islington's eyes drifted off and she was once again immersed in a little fantasy.

"Come up to scratch! As if he would...as if I would ever accept the likes of him! He is a monster, and all the world his followers!"

Lady Islington eyed the girl with disfavor. It would be just like the chit to throw away the greatest opportunity of all time. To punish her, she said tartly, "We may be overstepping ourselves in any case. It might have been someone else who put about the rumor that it was only a misunderstanding."

Her barb fell on deaf ears. "I think that more than likely. And how came you to return to London? Are you certain it was Saintignon's letter who reached you? Could it perhaps have been his relative?"

"The missive had the Marquis Talleyrand's express seal, and he had dispatched his agent who had his writ on the matter. Else how could I have returned in so short a time? He managed to catch us while we were laid up at a bad inn with a broken axle and bid us return in his own traveling coach-I daresay he must have dozens of such conveyances-and along the way, his outriders rode ahead to every posting house to warn of our arrival. I slept in the best rooms in every posting house, and the service! Ah, traveling as the Marquis must be a little slice of heaven…"

Lady Islington continued much in this vein as they disembarked from the carriage and walked into the townhouse.

But despite her misgivings, Tempest presented herself the next evening beside Lady Islington at the Arenberg ball.

Would she see him there? she wondered ask the while she was getting dressed. Lady Islington had presented her maid with an incredibly precious length of fine lace and ribbon, as well as a string of seed pearls for her hair. Tempest was duly dressed by the maid in a dress of white crepe with draped sleeves, the lace trimmed to the bottom. A velvet robe of sea green went over the crepe dress and buttoned under her bosom. More beaded ribbon had been used to trim the edges of the robe. Kid gloves and shoes completed her evening ensemble.

Lady Islington was a vision smothered in yards of lace encrusted velvet and jewels. Even her turban was a confection of silk flowers and no less than three glittering broaches. When she moved, Tempest found that even her soft kid shoes bore mismatched baubles.

After they had arrived and were announced, Tempest was certain she would be relegated to the sidelines as she always was. But several gentlemen came to ask for dances, and she found that the past few weeks were a strangely forgot episode. The warm smiles from the other wallflowers that had greeted Tempest as a recognized compatriot of similar unpopular standing soon turned to sour looks.

Yet there was nothing in particular to gloat over. Tempest found that the the first two dances were unspoken for, and the most important dance, that of the supper dance, was also unsigned. After some uncomfortable moments trying to converse with the other wallflowers, Tempest realized that the men brave enough to dance with her were urged on some sort of a dare. Her heart sank as she realized that she might in all probability be stood up for those dances.

Tempest squared her shoulders as she spied several sidelong glances in her direction. She would _not_ be an object of pity! If she had any regrets, it was that the silent anonymity of her first weeks in London was broken and she was regarded as something of a notoriety. The one who dared stand up to Saintignon. No one quite knew how to react to that, considering no one had since then seen them together.

With a start, she realized that a showdown was exactly what everyone was waiting for. Despite her pleasant company yesterday, Elsa Arenberg had not come near her despite several looks on her direction. She had mistaken her kind gesture then, but no matter.

Tempest was so sunk in her thoughts that she had no idea when talking in the ballroom lulled and then sped up again, and movements froze and then restarted. She was only dimly aware that a pair of male feet in polished evening shoes had stopped in front of her.


	7. Chapter 7

"I said, give me your dance card," said a voice so imperious that Tempest jumped and held out her dance card before she had even realized what was happening.

She looked up to find that none other than Dominic Saintignon, Marquis Talleyrand, was standing in front of her, so close that his feet were nearly trodding hers.

Startled, Tempest's hand jerked and she would have taken back her dance card had not Saintignon kept an iron grip on it and to her horror, scrawled his name down before giving her a jerky bow of his head and walking off.

Tempest was left with her mouth open amidst whispers until Lady Islington forced her way through the stares back to her side.

"Oh, my dear!" that lady gushed in a whisper loud enough to be heard by half the people around them. "Saintignon has asked you to dance! What a triumph, what a triumph indeed!"

Conversations once again picked up.

"It's as good as a declaration," Lady Islington continued. "Let me see it. Ah, his signature. So bold, so dashing! We must frame it when we return home."

Tempest, who had not even had the presence of mind to see which dance Saintignon had procured before the card had been ripped out of her hands, said, "I am sure it is only a ruse…"

But Lady Islington had shrieked. "Two dances, my dear! Two dances! It is a declaration! Oh, the riches, oh the life you'll lead, my girl! Only do not be forgetting your dear old friend, Lady Islington, she what brought you to his attention."

But Tempest wasn't listening. She had taken back her dance card and was examining the black scrawled signature of Saintignon for the supper dance and another one later in the evening. With only half her attention on Lady Islington, she tapped a finger on the card while her mind raced.

But of course, she thought. _Of course_.

Not for one moment did she believe, as Lady Islington did in her delusions, that the dreaded Saintignon had honorable intentions. Marriage was so far from that man's mind did the older lady but know of his abduction of her to his home. So improper, so ruinous! If aught had gotten out -she was amazed that no one seemed to be talking of it- she would probably be seen as his mistress or worse!

But he had not managed to convince her to accept his weird offer of patronage -if ever there was a more euphemistic manner of setting her up as his amour propre, she didn't know what it was. She was never going to accept his offer...but he did not know that. He clearly had some twisted plan to torture her in some other manner...And what better way than to raise her hopes and then cut her before all society! Anonymity had been her shield before, and his attentions had neatly taken care of that!

"Lady Islington, is there a way to reject an offer of dance if they have already signed their name to your card?" she demanded.

"Well, of course you can say you feel faint, or you twisted your ankle...But then you cannot dance for the remainder of the night. You can say you need to repair a flounce on your skirt...I suppose there are all sorts of excuses, but you must never reject someone outright, for no other man can be seen dancing with you for the rest of that evening!"

Lady Islington continued to talk, returning to her favorite subject of the Saintignon, but Tempest's mind began to roam. She could come up with any excuse then, she was sure. Some excuse that wouldn't ruin this strange but providential popularity she seemed to have accumulated, but also keep her safely away from Dominic Saintignon. Ironic, really, how her downfall and popularity all seemed to come from the same source.

Perhaps she could have devoted more time to coming up with the perfect turn of phrase had she not had to perform several rigorous dances that took all of her concentration, and then in the middle of one turn, her attention was captured by a commotion at the top of the stairs. She almost missed a step when she saw that Lord Rochefort had arrived, for once not in concert with the other Horsemen, and that his companion was someone she had never seen before: someone tall, elegant, blond, and undeniably beautiful.

"Who is the lady who has just arrived?" she asked of her dancing partner.

"That is the very beautiful and Original Lady Susanna, wife of the distinguished Bertram Chelmsford."

"She might be the most beautiful person I've ever seen," Tempest said sincerely, which won her an approving look from her partner.

Lady Susanna, at a glance, was everything Tempest felt she was not. Throughout the figures of the simple country dance, Tempest discovered that Lady Susanna was the only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Prell, whose estates ran adjacent to the Rochefort's, and that she was accounted good hearted and somewhat eccentric in her good works for the poor. For it was fashionable to donate pieces of clothing that one would otherwise give to the servants or leftovers from an elaborate banquet, but the height of impropriety to actually _visit_ the poor in person, which Lady Susanna had been wont to do. Of course she had then married the very worthy Bertram Chelmsford, who was a younger son.

"It was just like Lady Susanna to have turned down all her immensely suitable and titled suitors in favor of a good man," he said with a shake of his head.

"Is he a man of the cloth?" Tempest asked in between turns.

"Oh, no. But as a diplomat of the state, he has done very creditable work on behalf of the government and was sent with the ambassador to Vienna, for the signing, you see."

Tempest did see. She also saw that Lady Susanna was the subject of the sculpture Lord Rochefort caressed that night.

When she was escorted off the dance floor back to her seat, in the press, she found a piece of paper being pressed in her hand. She clutched it in her fist and under the guise of repairing to the lady's anteroom, was able to unfurl it and read it.

"Plese met me in the Gold Chamber. It is of utmost importans." Gold had been underlined three times. Tempest disregarded the misspellings, for it was an age of illiterates. Without thinking, she rushed from the anteroom to find the Gold Chamber.

There was a profusion of chambers all connected to one another via doors, and she was able to guess at their identification from the decor.

The Gold Chamber was clearly named so from the abundance of gold plated decorations, from the gold painted cornices, to the gold curtains, the gold stripped wallpaper, and the gold gilded settee and cabinet.

At first the room looked deserted and a Tempest turned to leave. A voice from the half open adjoining door stopped her. But it was male, and Tempest had been almost certain that it was Sarah who had sent the note.

"You don't look happy to see me, Harry," a female voice responded. It was a light, cultured voice that Tempest did not recognize. But with a start, she realized that Harry was Lord Rochefort.


	8. Chapter 8

It appeared to be an assignation.

As a gently bred miss, she should not eavesdrop. But Tempest was frozen.

There was no reply.

A light laugh. "No words, Harry? And here I fancied us to be the dearest of childhood friends."

It was Lady Susanna, it had to be.

"You went away with not even a word," Tempest heard Lord Rochefort reply in a low voice, and her heart reached out to him in a great wave of pity. She had never heard that careless voice intone with such depth of emotion before.

There was a sigh. "It was… almost a lark. Bertram was so idealistic, so full of passion and ambition. He wanted to change the world."

"And now?"

"And now…" Lady Susanna's voice trailed off. "I suppose it's the way of the world, that marriages such as ours are loveless. But I admired him so, I thought it was sufficient."

"You should have waited for me," Lord Rochefort said.

"I wish I _had_!" Lady Susanna said, and then laughed a little. "Oh, Harry, you do say the nicest things to a girl."

"Do you suppose I didn't mean it?"

"Harry, darling, you're as dear to me as any-"

There was a sudden rustle and a gasp. Tempest ceased to breathe. "Harry, what are you-"

"Shut up, Susanna," Tempest heard Harry say, and then there was an unmistakable sound of Lady Susanna being thoroughly kissed.

Tempest drew away from the door, hands pressed to her flaming cheeks. Oh, she should not have eavesdropped. She found it hard to breathe, a torrent of thoughts and images flooding through her brain. Harry-no, Lord Rochefort, Lady Susanna now were-oh! She really ought not to have eavesdropped.

Tempest paced inside the dark room, so immersed in her thoughts that she did not see the door of the Gold Chamber opening, and a figure, face shadowed against the candlelit hall, appear until he had come up very close to her.

She looked up with a start at a handsome young footman clothed in the Arenbergs' livery standing before her. "Yes?" she inquired, a hand pressed to her chest to still her breathing. "Am I wanted by Lady Islington?"

Then, without warning, Tempest suddenly found herself hauled into the footman's arms. With a muffled shriek, she tried to extricate herself against the servant's seeking lips. "Sir! Unhand me immediately!" she shrieked before modulating her voice. Oh, merciful heavens, not another man thinking she was an easy target!

Lights suddenly flooded the room, shrieks resounded. Tempest found herself suddenly free, but with her hands caught up in the footman's unyielding grasp. Both the doors to the hallway and to the adjoining chamber were ajar, and a multitude of people now crowded into the room, among them Lady Susanna and Lord Rochefort, looking none the worse for their assignation.

Elsa Arenberg, her mother, Mrs. Arenberg, Iolanthe, Mrs. Wainscot, the biggest gossip in town, and two other gentlemen were standing in the doorway, all looking varying degrees of stunned and malicious satisfaction.

"Dear Miss Makepeace," said Elsa in a soft, sweet voice. "Whatever are you about?"

"Where the devil are you taking me?" demanded another voice from the hall. Tempest's heart sank when she recognized the voice of Saintignon. In that split second, she realized that he had contrived to ruin her again - this time, at the biggest ball of the Season.

Saintignon's head appeared behind the crowd in the doorway, but his height gave him an visual advantage into the room. She glared accusingly at him, and noted distantly that his eyes revealed shock and anger.

"Oh, my lord," simpered Iolanthe. "Only see what Miss Makepeace has done just moments before your dance together."

"Caught _in flagrante delicto_ with our footman! I'm shocked, _shocked_ at what's become of young girls these days!" screeched Mrs. Arenberg, but Tempest saw with shock that her eyes were gleaming with cold satisfaction and not with surprise in the least.

Saintignon came into the room with the simple expedient of pushing aside all the people crowded in the doorway. A slew of emotions paraded across his face, annoyance, shock, disappointment or unhappiness, and then anger.

The anger took precedence and he turned a look of suppressed rage on the footman, who quickly dropped Tempest's hand.

"What is this?" he demanded of Tempest.

Caught off guard by the sudden flare of bright lights, the deluge of new faces in a previously unoccupied room, Tempest could only gape.

Then, faster than anyone could imagine, suddenly Tempest was pushed to one side and the footman was hauled off his feet by the much larger Saintignon. "You dare," Saintignon breathed to the servant's face not two inches from his, "you dare touch a gentlewoman?" And before anyone could step in to intervene, Saintignon had dealt the footman a savage blow to the face with a clenched fist that sounded like an echoing and sickening _thwack_ in the small room. Murmurs and shocked gasps trailed off.

"Dear Saint," said a calm voice into the fray before Saintignon could strike again. "I'm afraid that this has all been a big misunderstanding."

Everyone turned to look at Lord Rochefort.

"You see, Miss Makepeace, Lady Susanna and myself-" Rochefort bowed at the congregation- "were having a quiet _tête-à-tête_ in here - quite proper, you understand, as Lady Susanna was the chaperone, and the footman came in here to inquire after - oh, something or another, and I'm afraid he tripped and Miss Makepeace happened to stumble as well, and the two of them bumped heads quite dreadfully. Miss Makepeace, are you quite all right?"

Tempest was almost unable to speak. Her eyes met Rochefort's impassive blue gaze and she blushed. Blushed because she had eavesdropped on him, blushed because she wondered if he knew, blushed because she hadn't seen him for such a long time, and now he was once again, saving her.

"Dazed, as you all can see," drawled Lord Rochefort.

There was a disappointed murmur of voices from the doorway.

Saintignon returned his gaze to Tempest, his eyes falling to the footman, who was shorter than he was by a few inches, bleeding profusely yet afraid to move. His nose, Tempest saw with a churning stomach, was twisted to one side. "Get out of here, and do not ever come near Miss Makepeace again, do you hear me?" he said harshly, breathing hard. "Leave before I change my mind and strike you for disturbing her!"

Then, in a tone vastly different from before, he asked Tempest, "Are you hurt?"

"But whyever was the room dark?" persisted Iolanthe.

"Oh, Iolanthe!" Elsa said quickly. "I'm sure Miss Makepeace had her reasons."

Tempest's eyes flew up and met Elsa's across the room. The blond's eyes were devoid of all expression, but Tempest felt a cold chill chase across her shoulders. It was too contrived. She had suspected Saintignon, but had it been someone else? Perhaps her new friend, Elsa Arenberg? But to what end?

Saintignon was holding onto her hand with the fist he had used to punch the servant. His white gloves were marked and smeared with dark blood. It was a forceful reminder of the sheer malevolence and violence of this man. She felt sick to her stomach, at Elsa's two-faced friendship, at how easily the servant was induced to do what she was sure was a ploy to destroy her newfound popularity, at how quickly Saintignon could be driven to anger and violence. She jerked her hand out of his grasp, not seeing his brows draw together at her action, and backed away from him.

"You neglected our dance," he said tightly. "It is an affront to me, that you should be late to a dance with _me_ , and be found chatting with other people, and a _servant_."

"I cannot dance now," she replied, evading his eyes, and grabbing ahold of the most convenient excuse afforded her. "I have a headache now from hitting my head."

"My dear sir," said Lady Susanna with a light laugh, stepping forward to take Tempest's shaking arm. "I will take care of this girl and return her to your side as quick as I can. Come!" she said to Tempest, who followed her dumbly from the room.

In the anteroom, Lady Susanna moved with sure grace, and tidied up Tempest's hair and surveyed her gown with a critical eye.

"Thank you so very much," said Tempest awkwardly.

"We all of us have indiscretions," said Lady Susanna with a slight smile.

"It...it wasn't an indiscretion," Tempest said. "Someone gave me a note. I supposed it to be from a friend, a girl. And then suddenly the footman appeared and grabbed me. The next thing I knew, everyone was there."

"Ahhh," murmured Lady Susanna with sudden understanding. "I see now. Saint has shown marked interest in you, yes? That is cause for some very malicious jealousy indeed. Pray be careful in the future, my dear, and do not attend any mysterious notes from now on. Saint was always very possessive of all his toys."

"I am not-I am not his toy," Tempest said fiercely. "I'm not-his interest, or anything like that. He merely wants to torment me."

"Torment you?" repeated Lady Susanna with bemusement. "Ah, yes, Saint has a fearsome temper and has tormented many, _many_ people. But, to my knowledge, he has never asked a young girl to a supper dance. He seldom dances, to my knowledge."

"Have-have you perhaps heard of the recent scandal? Of the red ribbon incident?" Tempest asked this incredibly kind woman who should have been her most hated rival.

Lady Susanna gurgled with laughter. "They are still doing that? Oh, they are such boys. They will never grow up. But it is hard for them, you see. They are so feted, so spoiled. It does not hurt that they are also dashing and attractive men," she said cynically. "They can do no wrong in society, and heaven help all those in a lower echelon. I had heard that you were the famous-or should I say, the infamous-Miss Makepeace. Contrary to your name, but I rather think you shall be good for them."

Lady Susanna fixed a curl on Tempest's forehead. "In particular, I have never seen Harry, that is, Lord Rochefort, speak up for any young lady. It was…surprising. Nigel, perhaps, or Marchie, but, it seems that you have caught the attentions of the most elusive two Horsemen."

"It… It wasn't the first time that Lord Rochefort has saved me. He saved me from an attack in the park, so I am very indebted to him," Tempest confided, more of a reason to talk about Lord Rochefort than anything else.

Lady Susanna raised her eyebrows. "That _is_ out of character. I'm so pleased. We grew up together, you see, and he was such a reticent and shy boy. I always felt he was my little brother, and not a neighbor."

Tempest thought of the exchange she had overheard, her cheeks blooming a fresh red. "Little brother?" she repeated.

"Harry is four years my junior. When I married, he was but sixteen."

That explained the _tendre_ he carried for her.

"Now, shall we return to the ballroom?"

The ballroom was abuzz with rumors of the contretemps that had happened. Mrs. Arenberg was unhappy that her schemes had not worked to take down the pretender that was Miss Tempest Makepeace, but the fact that her ball would be _the_ most talked about event of the start of the Season was some comfort.

"Leave the ball?" cried Lady Islington when informed of the fake incident of Tempest knocking her head with a footman. "Not a chance, my girl. An you leave now, you leave the field wide open to so many other contenders, and you still have one last chance with a dance with Saintignon, and I mean to see you dance it!" Lady Islington was stern and firm. She would not be budged. It had been the outside of enough that Tempest had not attended the supper dance with Saintignon. Her reputation as a chaperone and prime bragging rights were about to be dislodged for good!

Tempest wasn't sure yet what to expect of Saintignon, but the evening had been a failure because Rochefort had not approached her for even one dance. He _had_ rescued her reputation though, she thought with a wistful smile. He was elegant, gentle, intelligent...everything that the brutish Saintignon was not. And yet, she was forced to do _his_ bidding, at least in public.

Saintignon was standing next to Lady Islington, promptly waiting for her when she finished her promenade around the ballroom. She took his proffered hand reluctantly and silently took up position for the next dance.

It was a few minutes into the dance before she decided to ask him the question that had been foremost in her mind since the hastily averted scandal. She raised her eyes up to find him watching her steadily with his black eyes.

"Did you send me a note?" she asked abruptly. "Before the super dance," she elaborated, watching with suspicion the pink that slowly infused his high cheekbones under her stare.

"I _-_ no, I… What note? Why would I send you a note?" he asked, sounding very un-Saintignon and slightly flustered.

"I received a note which bade me appear in the Gold Chamber," she said, watching him closely.

He frowned. "From Lady Susanna?"

He appeared to be genuinely puzzled, and even distracted and, she could almost believe-nervous. But what had such a self-proclaimed god on high have to be nervous about, if not his veracity? On the other hand, Tempest truly did not believe for a second that Saintignon would lie about sending a note. He was all-important, was he not? If he _had_ sent a note that ultimately caused her downfall, he would be crowing over it and announcing it to all and sundry, not disavowing knowledge.

The hand at her waist was rigid and the hand that held hers was stiff but unyielding. It appeared that he really had not danced very often at social functions. She looked at him for a long moment to ascertain his truthfulness, a gaze he returned at first with bemusement and then a slow soft smile.

"If you gaze at me any longer," he said in a voice that was most unlike him, "I will begin to think you find me extremely pleasing to the eye."

She glared back at him in exasperated distaste. How could he say such trivial things…as though they were the best of friends and had not several weeks of bad blood between them?

The motions of the dance split them with another couple, the man who was significantly older hailed Saintignon, saying, "Ho there, Talleyrand, was hoping-"

The man pirouetted with Tempest.

"to speak to your father-"

Tempest was once again dancing with Saintignon.

"about the rights to the-"

And again with the older man.

"mines. When can I-"

In a civil tone of voice that Tempest had never heard from him, Saintignon replied, "Send a card to the house, sir. I'd be happy to attend you there."

"Aha, aha, jolly good," the man replied before they clapped their hands in the middle and rejoined their original partners.

"My father's business partner," Saintignon explained to Tempest.

"I suppose he doesn't get the brunt of your anger," she said tartly.

"A mutually beneficial relationship," he agreed.

"Only the peons are deserving of your anger, I daresay."

For a moment, he looked puzzled at her provocative words that were at odds with her calm demeanor but decided to take them at face value. "The mines are a very lucrative venture. Naturally-"

She cut him off. "Yes, I understand all too well. You can push around those who are lowly and weaker than you, and from whom you reap no benefits. You can threaten to whip them, kidnap them, hit them without repercussion, and bring them to ruin, because they can do nothing to stop you, is that it?"

She had gone too far. His lenience towards her throughout the evening was fast evaporating as his eyes narrowed. "I bade the man come to my residence. Is the invitation a crime?" he demanded haughtily.

The dance was drawing to a finish.

Tempest should have controlled her own fraying temper. But all night long, she had been urged to stay for the all important dance with the all important Saintignon, as though everything he had done against her and countless others amounted to nothing. She could not erase the image of his blood soaked gloved hand from her mind, how easily he had lifted the other man and broken his nose inches from her. It could easily have been _her_ in the footman's position, being struck down while everyone stood impassively by. She feared him, feared the darkness in him almost as much as she hated him.

"My lord, I see exactly who you are and what you are," she said. "You are a hypocrite and a tyrant, and your power and wealth has stood you well, but the poor are not downtrodden, no matter their lack. They rose up and rebelled against tyranny in France, and they will against everything you stand for. And well will you deserve it," she finished, her eyes flashing although she kept her voice low and modulated, "for you are without a doubt the most despicable man in the world and everything I detest in a person! I don't care to be feted just because the great Saintignon now wishes to make amends for his disgusting actions. You can't make amends for the rotting soul inside you, that causes you to hurt innocent people. Kindly refrain from asking me to dance again. It is an _honor_ I would gladly forego!"

Tempest sank into her very deepest curtsy, imbuing the action with irony, and left him on the dance floor.

Just let him try, she thought, eyes flashing and head held high, just let him _try_ to ruin her again! She wasn't long for London society anyway!


	9. Chapter 9

In retrospect, Tempest was all too aware that she might have insulted and alienated the most powerful man in London. Not for the first time, she wondered what had possessed her parents to name her Tempest, as she was showing all signs of adhering to her name.

Nobody was aware as to the ending dialogue between herself and Dominic Saintignon. If her eyes had been flashing in anger, all others saw was the fake smile plastered to her face. If Saintignon's face had been taut with rage, well, that was all too be expected as his signature expression. The talk of the ball was that he _had_ danced with her. Naught else was half so important.

But _why_ had he singled her out? It was a question that had sent her out walking with one of the housemaids early in the afternoon, before the time for callers. She couldn't sleep, thinking of the footman who had been bidden to ruin her for profit and had his face disfigured as a result. Yesterday, it had not occurred to her that in all possibility, he would soon be unemployed, in a period when footmen were chosen for their looks and the status they brought to a wealthy household.

"Miss Makepeace! Oh, Miss Makepeace, is that you?"

Tempest found she was being hailed in the most unorthodox fashion off the streets of Mayfair by a young man with curly sandy hair. She would have been alarmed had he not looked so disarming and guileless, and ever so slightly familiar.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "But I don't think-"

"Miss Makepeace, Tempest, do you not remember me?" he said on a laugh. "We grew up together in Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble. I've only just returned from India, you see, where I've been to make my fortune! Pray, how is your family? How is your brother?"

"Albie! Albie Kadenbury! I've not seen you in the longest time!" Tempest exclaimed, overcome by the encounter and the first friendly overture in the past few days.

"Yes, how opportune it is that I should happen along this path just in time to see you! You have not changed in the slightest, I vow!"

"You have, Albie! You've become quite the gentleman," Tempest said, noting Albie's fine tailored figure. Albie Kadenbury would never rise to the sartorial heights of say, Lord Rochefort, but she had been in London long enough to know the look of expensive tailoring. The buff colored breeches and bottle green jacket well became Albie's slight form and his inquisitive air.

"Come, then, a reunion calls for a celebration! What say you to Gunter's?" Albie said.

"I…"

"I won't take no for an answer! I still owe you for saving me from that enraged bull, and I would love to hear news from Upper Cheltendon!"

It seemed not unexceptional to take his arm and be escorted to that excellent confectionery with her maid following five paces behind.

"A selection of the day's delectables, my good man," Albie said in a grandiose fashion to the waiter once they were seated in Gunter's.

Tempest made a sound of protest at the extravagance.

"Dear Tempest," Albie said fondly. "Don't cast another thought for my pockets, for I've quite come up in the world. And if we don't finish the selection, I'll have it wrapped up for my servants!"

The way he pronounced it made it sound like he had an entire retinue of servants.

"I do, rather," he admitted. "I've rented a house on Clarges Street, and I've plans to do the town, so to speak. The servants will follow me down to my estate after the Season. Yes, you've not misheard! My estate!" he repeated proudly.

When pressed to explain, he explained how the impoverished Kadenburies had been forced to move away from Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, and how he had signed up with the East India Company as a clerk, and by means of some lucrative opportunities, had only just returned from India with a small fortune. "Enough to provide dowries for my sisters, to buy a small manor for my parents that's close to my own estate. And I shall be able to marry too," he said proudly.

Tempest looked at Albie fondly. All the tailoring and money in the world could not take away from his eagerness, honesty, and naivete. It set him far apart from all the people she had met this far in London and made her realize how very homesick she was. Without thinking, she heaved a sigh.

"What is it?" Albie asked in concern. "Do you not like the selection of pastries? Would you care for an ice? Only it is so cold outside…"

Albie broke off as a shadow fell over their table.

Tempest jumped a foot in the air when she realized who had approached them.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance," said the silky, deadly tones of Dominic Saintignon, Marquis Talleyrand.

Albie looked puzzled and then pleased by the interruption. "Albert Kadenbury at your service, sir."

Saintignon affected not to have heard and snapped his fingers in a languid gesture.

Within moments, another chair had been brought to their small table, and a cup of steaming coffee set down in front of the new arrival, whereas their own selections had yet to appear. The waiters bowed officiously and ceremoniously low, murmuring, "my lord," as they dispersed.

Albie looked puzzled at the obsequious service and Tempest sought to enlighten him.

"We have the honor of being joined by the Marquis Talleyrand, Albie," she said stiffly.

"It is an honor, my lord," said Albie with wide eyes. He looked simultaneously so shocked and so pleased that Tempest thought he would fall over in a faint.

"Albie?" Saintignon repeated, lifting his eyelids to reveal glittering eyes.

"Oh yes, it is a nickname for Albert, my lord," explained the innocent Albie.

Only Tempest was aware of how Saintignon's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a fist atop the table.

"We have long been acquainted," she said quickly. "We are in the way of being long time friends."

"Although such was not always case," Albie said. "Do you not recall when I intruded upon you and Daisy at the fairy ring? I thought I would nigh be tied to the stake myself!" Albie laughed with good nature at himself, unaware that Tempest joined in uneasily and that stormclouds were gathering on Saintignon's dark brow.

"Albie Kadenbury," Saintignon cut in with a noticed lack of inflection. "Connected with the Hadenburg Kadenburies?"

"Alas, no," laughed Albie. "I doubt if you would have heard of any of us, my lord! But of course, I had heard tell of _you,_ and am _exceeding_ honored to now make your acquaintance. I would be delighted if you could but join me at a _teeny_ soiree I am holding-"

"I doubt if I have the time," interrupted a Saintignon with dangerous dead eyes.

"But I have not told you the date!" said Albie.

 _Oh, Albie!_ thought Tempest, praying fiercely that her friend did not try Saintignon's temper, do shut up!

Seeing that Albie was about to embark on another invitation or more stories, Tempest stood, causing both men to rise to their feet, Albie with a clatter and Saintignon, slow and deliberate, more like a panther sensing quarry.

"I do beg your pardon, Albie, but it is past time I returned. Lady Islington will be inquiring after me and-"

"Will she indeed?"

Misinterpreting Saintignon's soft question, Albie sought to also waylay Tempest. "Listen to the man," urged Albie, "for indeed our delicacies have not yet arrived."

Looking from Albie's oblivious face to Saintignon's dangerously still countenance, Tempest murmured that Lady Islington would be awaiting her return for guests from the ball the night before would soon be descending to make their calls.

"Oddso!" said Saintignon, "that with such a reason preventing you from venturing outside that you should be seen dallying with this… clodpate of a cit!"

Ignoring Albie's sputter, Tempest retorted, color rising in her cheeks, "You can scarce call it dallying in a public thoroughfare with my maid sitting not ten feet away."

"I call it dallying when a lady is up and abroad and not at home to receive callers as is proper after a ball," he replied in an equally flinty voice.

Tempest stared uncomprehendingly at Saintignon. He could hardly be implying that he was such a caller… was he? She had assumed after her censorious diatribe the evening before that he would have washed his hands of her, that he would have realized she was no mealy-mouthed victim for him to bait.

But he had not finished. "I call it dallying when a caller must wait two hours before being informed that his quarry had slipped away in the early hours like a common strumpet!"

The shock of his words rendered both of them and those in their immediate proximity mute.

Then a commotion outside the shop broke the silence surrounding them, and whispers began to mount, as though time had reset itself and motion was restarted in the world. A waiter came hurrying up to them.

"My lord," the waiter said breathlessly. "I'm afraid your carriage has caused quite a blockage outside. If you would please-" he broke off at the look on Saintignon's face.

"Take care of it," Saintignon said in a dangerous voice, then lifted his eyes to stare down his nose at the waiter.

Without saying another word, the waiter bowed and retreated.

"You can't speak to her like that," huffed Albie, loyal to the core. "Why, I have half a mind to-"

"Albie, no!" Tempest broke into his train of thought with a shout.

"Yes?" said Saintignon with sibilant silkiness, staring down his nose at the shorter man, both of his fists now clenched.

"Please see me home this instant, Albert Kadenbury," Tempest replied for him.

Saintignon turned his dead eyes on Tempest, and she felt a chill travel up her back at the look on his face. "That is the fourth time you have called him by his Christian name. Prefer you his company to mine?"

Tempest was already backing away, one hand gripping the fabric on Albie's sleeve for fear he would be left confronting the devil.

"You dare… touch him in front of me?" Saintignon breathed. Then, with a motion faster than Tempest could imagine, he had jerked the small table aside so that it fell sideways, cutlery, centerpiece, cup, saucer, coffee, and biscuits flying through the air to hurtle at those at the next table. With some horror, Tempest saw that the two men sitting there did not rise to demand satisfaction, only turned startled, scared eyes in their direction before throwing money on the table and running for the entrance. Waiters flew towards them to attend to the mess only to halt only feet away, wariness etched onto their faces. Tables cleared. It was as though an invisible wall had been set up around them and no one was coming forward to break the tension or the paralysis that gripped their little tableau.

"You…you must be mad," said Albie in a disbelieving and faltering voice, staring at the smashed china and ruined food all around them. "I paid good money for those pastries, and so I beg leave to tell you!"

Tempest wished he had not spoken. In that instant before Saintignon turned his attention towards Albie, she had the horrible thought that while the rage burned in Saintignon's eyes, there was no telling what horrors he was capable of perpetrating. She has a sudden awful image of Saintignon turning that rage on Albie and killing him in front of her eyes, just as he had struck the footman yesterday without warning.

Tempest moved without thinking. She hitched up her skirts and kicked him hard, with her heel and not her toes, for she had the sense of mind to know that her soft kid shoes would hurt her more than it hurt him. Then she pushed her chair into him so that it momentarily unbalanced him. Without a second look backwards, she grabbed Albie and ran.


	10. Chapter 10

As she ran and Albie stumbled after her, she had the insane desire to laugh, for she was once again saving yet another poor innocent soul and running away from Dominic Saintignon.

"Where's your curricle?" she demanded once they had turned the corner.

"I-I-I-" were the only words Albie was capable of stammering.

"Never mind!" she said. "We must take a hack, and quickly!"

But that was easier said than done, for the streets were clogged with afternoon traffic and riders and carriages alike were moving along so slowly they could outstrip them by walking.

"There's his carriage," Tempest heard a deep aristocratic voice state. "Blocking all lanes of traffic, no less. I'm certain he commands his tiger to leave it like that."

Tempest stopped short when she realized the voice belonged none other to Lord Nigel, he of the tall and woefully well-built entourage of Saintignon, someone who could, she was certain, make mincemeat of the two of them for his lord and master! And next to him was Lord Marchmont, for all as though they were a trap sprung for her.

The two men stopped short in surprise when they saw her and then shared looks before turning charming smiles on her. "Well, Miss Makepeace, have you been cajoled by Lord Talleyrand to take a walk around the park?" Lord Marchmont inquired in a surprisingly civil voice.

"Yes, he must have hardly slept a wink," laughed Lord Nigel. "I was certain he would camp out…" He broke off when Albie limped into view.

"Tempest, do you have to run so fast? These boots are pinching my toes," Albie complained.

"Oh God," Lord Nigel said with a groan. "Are you not with Saint?" he demanded to know.

Tempest correctly interpreted that to refer to Saintignon. "No," she snapped out, eyes flashing a challenge. "Your friend ruined our outing and I warn you not to try anything or else I'll have to hit _you_ as well!"

"As well?" Lord Marchmont repeated. "Then… he saw you with this…this…" They both looked Albie up and down derisively, taking in his ruffled curly hair, his round, beatific face, his unbroken-in Hessians that seemed to swallow up his small stature.

"Mushroom?" finished Lord Nigel for Lord Marchmont.

"I beg your pardon, sirs," Albie said stiffly. "I am Albert Kadenbury and I am no mushroom! I own an estate in Lowesbrough and it boasts fifty acres. Indeed, I am a man of property!"

Tempest could have struck the pair of them when they burst out laughing at Albie's words, for all like adolescent boys jeering at their peer.

"Let us go, Albie," Tempest urged the wounded Albie.

"But where is Lord Talleyrand?" Lord Nigel asked. "Never say he is in Gunter's, of all places!" His voice was lifted in incredulous tones behind them.

The very last they could hear was a mocking, "Fifty acres!" and accompanied laughter.

Gunter's Tea Shop was located on Berkeley Square, and it was but a stone's throw to Clarges Street. Albie was chafing at his humiliation by the first notables he had chanced to meet in London, but Tempest was too preoccupied to pay him much attention. In fact, when he muttered a goodbye and took himself off, Tempest did not think to inquire after him or the maid she had unwittingly left behind and who had returned before her.

"Lady Islington is waiting for you in the blue salon," Holmes said lugubriously upon opening the door to Tempest. "Best you hurry." His words were meaningful.

Tempest's heart sank. It probably hadn't been the wisest move to go out walking without first telling Lady Islington, but she had kept up the habit throughout her entire stay before Saintignon happened to her. It hadn't occurred to her that suddenly, circumstances were changed.

The blue salon was once papered in a tasteful blue and gold stripe, but various odds and ends of any variation of blue had ended up in the room, now rendering it more of a cave of blue things.

Lady Islington sat in a settee upholstered in a garish blue and orange damask piped with pink. A stuffed blue bird hung over her head and she was ensconced between two giant cushions, one a greenish-blue, the other of light blue lace. "Well, miss, it's about time you finally returned. I was about to set a Runner after you," said the venerable lady with a narrowing of her eyes.

Tempest did not bother to state that Lady Islington had heretofore taken little to no interest in her, except as a sometime servant girl to fetch and carry her fan or shawl. Therefore, Tempest had gotten into the habit of amusing herself in the cheapest possible ways, by walking to all sights in greater London before two in the afternoon, which was when Lady Islington rose for the day. Upper Cheltenham-on-the-Trumble had been far less formal, and Lady Islington's lectures on the _de rigeur_ behavior of the ton had been delivered in a bored monotone interspersed with that lady's schedule of the day. It had been such a disjointed monologue that to this day, Tempest could not recall much of what was expected of her in polite society.

Furthermore, in the events leading up to the Arenberg ball, she had never before been asked to dance, so there had been no question of callers for her.

Instead of saying so this, Tempest sank into a curtsy. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I did not think you would need me this early in the day after a ball."

Lady Islington waved a vague hand. "Now that you're here, however, all's to the well. It will be the coup of the Season were my dear friends to see Saintignon calling on me," she gloated and all but rubbed her hands together in glee.

Tempest forbore from saying that she doubted after the disaster at Gunter's that Saintignon would be calling, unless it was to try to make her life hell. _That_ he was succeeding all too well! What a menace of a man to hold onto a grudge for so long! To follow her like pestilence and defame her as a woman of easy virtue for all and sundry to hear!

"I must also see what events we are to attend this week," muttered Lady Islington to herself and rang the bell next to her settee.

After a few minutes, Holmes entered. "Yes, madam?"

"The card rack, Holmes," Lady Islington demanded.

Holmes wordlessly walked to the blue sideboard at the opposite end of the settee and picked up the card rack. He then placed the entire gilt frame onto a silver tray , which he then carried the three feet across to Lady Islington.

Lady Islington took it, completely focused on the invitations and not seeing the strangeness of her actions in calling a servant from the other side of the house in order that he could bring something to her in the same room in which she was sitting.

"Let's see here," she muttered. "The Bevarly musicale, the breakfast hosted by Norton, no, that's not the one…"

As she flipped through the cards, there were voices out in the corridor, and Holmes bowed out of the room to see to the commotion. Tempest was certain she had heard knocking, which meant callers. For someone who was so studiously waiting for visitors, she thought Lady Islington have every appearance of not caring if anyone arrived.

And that, Tempest told herself, separates the aristocracy from you, my dear. Leaping up to help others, when this race of the titled wealthy could not be bothered to lift a finger to pick up a stack of cards not five feet away.

Holmes returned with his silver platter in hand, cards resting atop the tray, each one with folded corners.

"Mrs. Wainscot, Mr. Percival Peasy, and Mrs. and Miss Brand. Well, I suppose we'll get some good gossip from Mrs. Wainscot. Show them in, Holmes."

Tempest moved to stand in front of a small stool next to the settee. It was her unspoken place among guests, and she stood silently as they were announced, clearly in the middle of a lively conversation.

"But _who_ is he, Percy, to get such a warning? Had you ever heard of the man?" Mrs. Wainscot was saying, eyes alight with the glee of good gossip.

"Never heard of the man. I suppose you don't have to do much to get in black books with the Horsemen," Mr. Peasy drawled.

Lady Islington's own eyes were glittering with eager impatience, while Tempest's heart thudded with sudden alarm. " _What_ has been happening?" the venerable lady demanded.

"Oh my dear," said the beautifully coiffed matron, Mrs. Brand. "The most awful thing!" she said in tones that conveyed the opposite sentiment. "Another scarlet ribbon has been issued, and to a complete nonentity. We have trying to fathom who this person is, for the word is that he is but newly arrived in town and he doesn't seem to ever have been here before!"

"Perhaps it's a new game," said Mr. Peasy, darting a malicious glance towards a silent Tempest, "targeting newly arrived country bumpkins."

Tempest met his gaze levelly and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man look away first.

"But _what_ is the name of this mushroom?" Lady Islington demanded testily.

"An Albert Kadenbury."

Tempest turned white, then red.


	11. Chapter 11

Tempest spent an uncomfortable evening sitting at the Kemps' musicale, wondering how she could sneak away to warn Albie. The safest course for him now was to leave town. But she had no more money left to bribe the servants. And thus, no way to send a message to Albie. Could she perhaps appeal to Holmes' better nature?

She was thinking of the exact words she could use on the butler and not paying one iota of attention to the shaky rendition of Schumann's _Widmung_ , when she realized that the chatter of low voices was steadily escalating in volume. A sidelong look at the audience proved that many were standing to peer out the window at the commotion outdoors. When the singer herself stopped, the commotion could more easily be identified as yelling and cat calls from outside, accompanied by the sound of running feet and laughter.

Then someone shouted, "It's that poor sod who's been ribboned!"

At that, Tempest found herself on her feet and pushing past the crowd at the door.

Hoping against hope that whoever had shouted was wrong, she ran down the steps and stopped cold when she saw a group of young foxed men hauling behind them a scuffed and bewildered Albie Kadenbury, hands tied in front of him for all like a downed fox.

How Tempest wished there could have been someone else who spoke up, someone else in this bewildering aristocratic country who could have stood for just and moral reason, and that she could be left to disappear into the framework!

But Albie's poor dirty face and his mussed garments provoked a different reaction and Tempest ran towards them. "Stop this at once!" she shouted at the men. "How dare you treat this young man like this? You should be ashamed of yourselves! What wrong has he done against you, against all of you?" she demanded, and as she railed, she was not only speaking to the foxed young men, but all of London, to all these godforsaken deadened men and women.

The startled young men stopped in their tracks, long enough for Tempest to hurriedly divest Albie of his ropes and haul him behind her.

"It's her," jeered a voice. "The hussy who's betrayed his lordship!"

Tempest, who had thought she has gotten through their thick heads, found with horror that the young men gazed at her with all the enraged eyes of a mad mob.

"She's thrown his lordship over for this piece of garbage!" hissed another voice, and their hands started to grab at her.

"Albie, for the love of God, run!" Tempest cried, hauling him after her and running for the Kemps' front door. But the butler had seen the raucous group of young men and the door firmly shut before she had made it up the steps and she heard the sound of deadbolts driven home.

There was nothing for it. Tempest ran and after her stumbled Albie. Down North Audley Street they ran and towards Grosvenor Street. If they could make it to Hyde Park, they could lose the crazed men, she knew it.

"Get the Horsemen!" she heard someone shout and it lent wings to her feet.

"Fetch horses! Tally-ho, the hunt's up!" someone else cried and her blood ran cold.

But before they could make it to Hyde Park, she stumbled and fell, and Albie crashed into her.

"Oi 'old 'er fer yer, yer nibs," Tempest heard in a different set of tones, and rough hands yanked at her hair. A rough cane made from a dead tree branch lay across her feet. It had been thrust at her to trip her up. Tempest felt jarred in her knees and left ankle and her hands and face were throbbing where she had dove face-first into the ground.

She turned and saw that Albie was shaking with fright. He had no idea what was happening, why he had been targeted. All she could do was pray with all her might. Maybe He could send a deliverer…

A clatter of rapid horse hooves killed her hopes until a cool emotionless voice cut into the night- "Unhand those two at once, you cur, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

Tempest could have cried, she was so relieved. She looked up at Lord Rochefort's lean, upright figure atop a roan. He was holding a pistol and pointing it steadily their direction. When the man holding her by her hair did not back away immediately, Lord Rochefort cocked his pistol. Tempest was amazed to find her vision blurred until she realized that tears were freely falling from her eyes.

"Who's that?" asked Albie almost tearfully.

"It's Rochefort, Albie," she said with a smile as the oily man with East London accents backed away and fled. "Everything will be all right now. Lord Rochefort's here."

"Who's that?" slurred one of the men.

"It's Rochefort, you fool," came a hissed reply.

"Then why is he interfering? He's a Horsemen, isn't he?"

"Miss Makepeace," Lord Rochefort's cool voice cut into the background sounds. "Are you injured? Can you stand?"

Tempest realized that she was still sprawled across the street and tried to stand, but pain reverberated up her left leg. Lord Rochefort seemed to know almost immediately and in the next moment, he had dismounted and was gathering her into his arms. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Tempest thought, I should enjoy this more; I need to remember this for the rest of my life, but her head ached and entire body was starting to hurt in unexpected areas. A sharp pain thrummed in her side, reminding her of her panicked run through Mayfair.

Unfair, she thought foggily, focusing on that last sensation. I've been running so often this past month that it should second nature by now.

"What's amiss?" another familiar voice cut into the night.

"It's him!" wailed Albie. "The crazy man!"

"What are you doing, Rochefort?" came Saintignon's hard voice into the fray, and suddenly he was looming over her.

Tempest shrank up against Lord Rochefort, hoping he wouldn't drop her, hoping he would carry her far from the devil that was Saintignon.

"Give her to me," Saintignon was demanding, and she felt his hard grip latch onto her upper arm.

But Rochefort didn't let go. "Were you responsible for the latest scarlet ribbon incident?" he asked instead.

Saintignon did not answer immediately, and when he did, he avoided Rochefort's question entirely. "Give me her," he repeated in a hard voice.

"I don't think so, Saint," Rochefort replied mildly. "As you can see, she has been hounded to within an inch of her life, and by your hands, if indirectly so. Furthermore, she doesn't want to go with you."

"Rochefort!" another voice warned. Marchmont.

"You shouldn't play with Saint's toy," added Lord Nigel lightly. "You know he never liked to share."

"Be quiet," ordered Saintignon and Tempest saw that his lips looked white with suppressed rage. His natural look, she thought faintly and strangely distantly. "Rochefort, I repeat, hand her over this instant."

But Rochefort carried her what appeared to be a waiting carriage - his curricle from the last time he conveyed her home, and tucked blankets around her legs. "Mr. Kadenbury, you'll need to stand in the back, there's a good lad."

And off they went, leaving the other three Horsemen standing in the street.

To her regret, Tempest did not remember that carriage ride and only just recalled being carried indoors. She had a raging cold and she awoke three days later, weak and hoarse, in Lady Islington's second-best bedchamber.

The maid, upon seeing her efforts to sit up, left immediately to fetch Lady Islington, and she appeared moments later, not at all sensible to Tempest's condition, and ready to impart news.

"Such goings-on had we, my dear," Lady Islington informed her with glittering eyes. "Oh, the elevated personages that graced these halls in these past few days. All of London is agog. ALL of the Horsemen have paid homage here, yes, oh my. And… yes, what is it, Holmes?"

"Visitor for Miss Makepeace," Holmes intoned, handing over a card.

"Oh, la, it must be one of them again," said Lady Islington as airily as though she were a highly sought after debutante, and took the card from Holmes. Her face immediately fell. "What are you about, Holmes? Clearly, Miss Makepeace is not nearly well enough to have visitors, and so you shall tell him!" she snapped impatiently.

"Wait, who is it?" Tempest asked, having an inkling of who her visitor might be.

With compressed lips, Lady Islington proffered Albie's card with a resigned air.

"Lady Islington, please… Holmes, could you ask him to wait? Lady Islington, I must see that he is all right. If...if...I must tell him to leave London, don't you see?"

Despite her incoherence, the last sentence was something that pleased Lady Islington to no end. "All right. See that the boy hies back to wherever he came from. I'll send Mary in to dress you."


	12. Chapter 12

It took just under forty minutes to get dressed under Mary's hands, including dressing her hair. She wore a long sleeved gown paneled in the front in navy velvet and trimmed with braid. It was one of the new gowns hanging in the wardrobe altered to her size. Tempest had looked askance at Mary at the new additions and the maid had responded that Lady Islington had seen fit to give her some of her older gowns, though Tempest saw that they were all made to this Season's fashions and many had not been worn even once. They were well-made luxurious gowns in fine fabrics and Tempest saw that they could be worn for many years, since there were generous hems and extra fabric.

Albie was ensconced in the Blue Saloon, which room looked even more crowded with knickknacks than ever. He jumped to his feet as soon as she entered the room. They spoke simultaneously.

"I'm so glad you called here, Albie-"

"I'm glad to see that you're up and about! They said that-"

They both broke off. Albie gestured for her to speak.

"I beg your pardon in speaking so directly, but it's just not safe for you to be in London right now," she said urgently.

"Yes, I myself am at a loss to explain what happened that night."

"It's quite simple, really. Saintignon speaks, and the whole polite world jumps," she said bitterly. "Anyone associated with me is dragged down into the mire."

"I'm not afraid!" Albie declared boldly, striking his chest manfully.

"No, but do consider your family. Your sisters," Tempest urged. "What harm is there for you to return home until the scandal dies down?"

"I suppose… say, do you think you could return with me for a visit? It will do you no end of good for a visit to the country and my sisters have not seen you this age. The air here is putrid with sewage and so damp I do not wonder you have taken ill."

Albie went on to proudly regale her with descriptions of his estate and the manor house that she was only too happy to listen, given his lot was once extremely impoverished and his sisters doomed to seek employment.

"It sounds lovely, Albie," she said wistfully. "I should love to see it and your sisters as well."

"Then come. It shall only be for a few weeks and you can return to this place with a fresh perspective."

Tempest had no idea how she would tell Lady Islington, but the invitation sounded too good to refuse out of hand. To relax in the country with old friends with whom there was no burden to hide, to pretend. She felt her spirits lifting and resolved to stand up to Lady Islington in this matter no matter what.

Lady Islington, as expected, was disdainful of the prospect of Albert Kadenbury and dismissive of the invitation. "For hadn't you better to hang on to Saintignon while he is interested?"

Tempest tried to rein in her temper and spoke in a low voice. "I do not know why it is you feel Saintignon has honest intentions where I am concerned. He has never shown me the slightest interest in any public events and only started tormenting me and setting all of London upon me. It would be silly to hinge my entire season upon a few itinerant gestures, all of which were clearly only a whim."

She saw that her words were slowly convincing Lady Islington. "It is true that he's never shown the slightest interest in any young lady, except to torment her with social ruin," that lady was muttering.

Tempest pressed her advantage. "I am but from a simple gentry family. You must admit that it is most unlikely - nay, impossible, even, for someone of Saintignon's… caliber…to be truly interested in me." Tempest thought grimly that she had managed to speak truly, without revealing just what she meant by Saintignon's "caliber."

Lady Islington was nodding and frowning thoughtfully.

"Furthermore, Albert Kadenbury is from a good family and has recently made his fortune in India. Why...a visit to his estate is almost a declaration!" she lied.

"I suppose it's not the best offer I had in mind, though I did not think _anything_ would come of your Season," Lady Islington said bluntly. "You speak truth. Aiming for Saintignon is shooting _much_ too high. I suppose it does no harm for you to leave London for a few weeks, and his sisters will provide all the chaperoning you require. Very well, you have my permission."

"Thank you, Lady Islington," Tempest said quietly, not wanting overly effusive gratitude to put her off the idea. "I shall send off a note round to his residence at once."

A socially disappointed Lady Islington took herself out that afternoon on calls. Tempest sat down to write letters to her family, telling them of a chance meeting with Albert Kadenbury and her imminent visit to his country estate, properly chaperoned, of course.

She was almost finished with her letters when Holmes appeared to tell her she had a visitor. "Thank you, Holmes," she said, expecting Albie to have come in person rather than send a note.

"I'll send Mary in," he said, meaning the maid, and then bowed out of the room.

Tempest stood and almost knocked over the inkstand when Holmes announced Saintignon.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she asked, backing up until she was hemmed in by the writing desk.

Saintignon was dressed, as usual, in customary blacks. Time and distance had diminished him in her memory, and she found that she had to look up and up to meet his eyes. His eyes were glittering and dark, with more life than the dull nemesis she had pictured in her mind. He seemed not only taller, but broader, bigger in the small confines of the room. Mary slipped in the room and sat in a chair by the door, affecting deafness.

 _What help will she be if Saintignon suffers another of his demonic fits again?_ she thought in helpless fury, cursing Holmes for showing him in, cursing herself for not even looking at the proffered card.

"Naturally I have come to see how you fared in your…illness," he said in his deep voice, the ironic timbre of which made her jump.

"Thank you. As you can see, I am recovered," she replied stiffly. Far be it from her to present any weakness, weakness that he might use against her.

"Good," he said loftily, "as it advances my own agenda. I am come to invite you to a house party at the Hall."

Despite her first initial response to reject everything immediately, she found herself asking out of curiosity, "What hall?"

He raised his eyebrows in haughty disbelief. "What _hall_? _The_ Hall, my dear girl. There is only one place in all of England that one need not ask, _what hall._ "

Belatedly, the conversation at the rout where she first glimpsed the Horsemen came to her.

"It will commence in two weeks' time and will last for a little over a fortnight. Naturally, I shall personally see to your conveyance-"

"I thank you for your invitation, but I'm afraid I have other plans," she said stiffly. It furthermore was not in _her_ plans to provide entertainment to his friends!

He broke off. "I beg your pardon?"

"Thank you for including me in such... noble festivities, but I have already bespoken my time," she said.

" 'Bespoken your time'? Speak plainly!" he ordered harshly.

"Very well, if you insist," she said, lips tightening. "I have already received an invitation to a house party in Lowesbrough, and I have already accepted."

"In Lowesbrough? What in the devil's name is in Lowesbrough?"

She pursed her lips down. _He_ might be lord over all he surveyed, but he wasn't _her_ master.

When he realized that she was not about to respond, his voice gentled. "I suppose I have not given you enough inducement, have I?" he said with a charming smile. Or else it would have been charming to everyone else. It left her unmoved except so far as to note that his teeth were in extremely good condition, being straight and white, with not a one missing. She thought idly that it was perhaps the first time she had ever seen him smile without having first pounded on someone.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to a chair next to the settee.

Tempest was unwilling to even grant him that much nicety. Not offering a seat immediately was a social gaffe in the extreme, but she had intended to rout him as quickly as possible.

Reluctantly, she stepped back and sat. He sat.

"The Hall has been in the family since 1503, when it was commissioned by the then Earl of Saintignon to replace Castle Saintignon, which was sadly outdated and expensive to upkeep as well as falling off the cliffs. I believe you will find the Hall to possess all modern conveniences, as it has been painstakingly updated throughout the years. Being in the Midlands also has other compensations, chief among them the temperate climes."

Tempest stared at him without expression. Was it now _de rigeur_ to boast of one's residence to strangers? They would be here for quite a while then, considering she had been inside his London residence and it had indeed been awe-inspiring.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Your answer?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Of course now you will have changed your mind about Lowesbrough when a far more enticing holiday is offered," he said, smiling confidently.

Tempest blinked. And blinked again. Then she stood. He stood as well, the two of them facing off like adversaries.

"I'm sorry, but I haven't changed my mind, and I shan't change my mind no matter how many amenities your home has to offer. I gave my word and I'm going to Lowesbrough."

His lips flattened and his brows drew down in a frown that was equal parts annoyed and mystified. Still he made no move to leave.

She cast her eyes around him to look at the housemaid, but she was asleep in her chair, head tilted back. Still, Tempest lowered her voice. "Hasn't the game gone on long enough, Lord Talleyrand?" she asked, raising her eyes to meet his steadily.

"Game?"

"Your red ribbon, setting all of London on me like a pack of hound dogs, kidnapping me, another red ribbon to my friend. Surely you cannot lack entertainment so badly."

His face had reddened at her list and he dropped his gaze, for all like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. "It's not a game," he denied.

"No," she agreed. _It's only my life_ , she thought.

"I…" he started to say, and then he flushed further and fidgeted. "That is, please do reconsider my invitation," he said before bowing abruptly and writing the room.

It was an odd visit, she reflected later. What chances had she that it was a genuine invitation? Would she have taken the chance if she had not already promised Albie?

No, she decided. She had already made the mistake of trusting Elsa Arenberg, who had then very cunningly tried to destroy her reputation once again. It wasn't in her to trust another one of those aristocrats who ran in the same circles.

She would go to Lowesbrough as planned and regain her momentum.

Then she would return to London with a vengeance!


	13. Chapter 13

Dear readers, thank you for continuing to keep up with the story! I hope you stick around for more!

"This truly is gorgeous country," she said as Albie tooled his curricle down the country lane to the nearby village of Greensboro.

"Yes, the land is arable and profitable," Albie said proudly. "We plan to provide eight thousand as dowry to each of my sisters."

It was an incredibly generous sum, and representative of how far Albie had come up in the world. For one moment, Tempest wondered if she could simply propose to him instead, and never return to London and her parents' lofty ambitions for her.

"It looks busy today," Albie observed as he drew near the town. _The Phoenix and the Hound,_ the posting house at the edge of town, was bustling with ostlers rushing about, leading horses to the stables. At least five traveling carriages stood in the yard.

"What news?" Albie shouted to an postboy running past.

"Visitors, sir! Noble visitors, belike!" the postboy shouted out before he was called away.

"Strange," Albie said. "We don't get many visitors around these parts, and it's for certain not hunting season."

They continued into town, Tempest enjoying the slower pace of the country life. A week had passed since she left for the country, and she had spent her visit merrily conversing with Albie's younger sisters, regaling them with details of London and poring over fashion plates. His parents, always congenial, had been delighted with Albie's turn of fortune and were well content to turn their generosity on an old friend from the past.

"What's to-do?" muttered Albie as they slowed to a crawl behind several horsemen on the narrow street.

"Somebody's 'orse just threw a bluidy _shiu_ and be blocking the bluidy street!" yelled a groom next to them.

"It looks quite hectic today," observed Tempest. "Perhaps we can visit the town tomorrow."

But Albie was prone to fits of stubbornness and continued pressing his curricle forward.

Then Tempest heard an unmistakeably aristocratic tone ringing out, "Control your horse, man!"

And the next thing she could see was Lord Marchmont drawing abreast of them on horseback, turning a surprised look upon seeing her, and saying, "Miss Makepeace, how…?"

Her heart dropped to her stomach in the same instant it rose up in hope. _Lord Rochefort_ , came the unbidden thought.

"Lord Marchmont," she said with a nod. "Dare I hope you are alone?"

He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her. "That's an exceedingly _fast_ question, Miss Makepeace."

"I meant, as you well know, whether you are the only visitor from London here."

"Well, well, well," drawled another male voice that resolved itself to be Lord Nigel, bringing his horse level with Marchmont. "Miss Makepeace, how do you do?" he said, tilting his beaver at her.

"What are you all doing in Lowesbrough?" Tempest demanded, throwing social protocol to the winds.

"I was just wondering that same thing, wasn't I, March, all through our blasted journey-begging your pardon-" Lord Nigel drawled. "But now we've come to the crux of the issue." His pointed nod in her direction marked her as their target.

"Surely you have not _all_ come," Tempest said on a thread of conflicting emotion, only just able to prevent herself from looking around for a fair-headed man.

"Oh, yes," Lord Marchmont laughed. "We were all bade to forget comforts of the Hall and to make our way into the wild. I think, dear Miss Makepeace, that you had best come to terms with Saintignon."

"Never," she bit out. "If that… _monster_ thinks I'll give in to this… this…"

Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel exchanged a glance. "Surely _monster_ is too harsh a appellation," Lord Marchmont said slowly.

"What's wrong with a fella trying to win a gal over?" Lord Nigel asked.

Tempest gave a bitter laugh. "Nothing. Except he's not just a _fella_ trying to win anyone over. He's trying to drive me out of society and has followed me here to do his worst. I warn you all now, I won't be the pansy you thought me in town!"

"Pansy, was she?" murmured Lord Nigel softly. "And here I thought a tigress had been set on us!"

Lord Marchmont was frowning slightly. "I think you have misunderstood Saint, Miss Makepeace. He isn't trying to hound you…at least, not for the purpose you imagine. I believe his intentions are honorable."

"Honorable, is he?" she said bitterly. "Was it honorable to kidnap me off the streets and haul me off to his residence to proposition me?" she bit out, with no regard for discretion.

The horseback men exchanged another look. Lord Nigel tsked-tsked. Lord Marchmont grimaced.

"No tact, has our boy," said Lord Nigel, shaking his head. "And after our little chats, too!"

"Curious," Lord Marchmont said in wonderment. "He must care more than even we suspected."

But Tempest's attention had been drawn by Albie.

"Is this true, Tempest?" he asked in a tight voice. "Has that…that _dastard_ tried these unspeakable things to you?"

Tempest eyed the gloves drawn tight over his knuckles. "Yes, but-"

"I've a mind to call him out!" Albie exclaimed angrily.

The horseback men burst into laughter.

"You?" said Lord Nigel. "Call _Saintignon_ out?"

"Boy, he'd make mincemeat out of you," said Marchmont, shaking his head. "Without half trying."

"My dear Mr. Kadenbury," Lord Nigel said. "Would you care to go a few bouts in the pugilistic arts with myself?"

Albie found himself stared straight in the eye by a suddenly serious, tall, and well-built Lord Nigel, who suddenly looked dangerously menacing. The taller man leaned in close from atop his horse. Albie gulped. His grip on the time tightened. His horses neighed in protest and stumbled.

Then the dangerous demeanor disappeared off Lord Nigel's face and he laughed right in their faces. "Easy there, fellow," he said to Albie, patting him on the back with such force that Albie was knocked forward. "And, dear boy, if you fear to face me, you'd best avoid Saintignon altogether. Nobody can best him in pistols or swords or fists. Believe me, they've tried."

There was a clatter of hoofbeats and then there was Saintignon, smirking down at them from the back of a vicious looking large tan horse.

"Good day, Miss Makepeace," he said, looking as satisfied as the cat that got in the cream. "A pleasure to see you again so soon, and so far from London."

Tempest could feel Albie flinching next to her but at least Marchmont and Lord Nigel had prepared her for this meeting. "I do not pretend to know why you have come, but you shall find Lowesbrough entirely devoid of your usual pleasures and be beset with ennui," she said coldly in response.

"I doubt that very much," he replied, locking eyes with her.

"The inn is surely not large enough to accommodate him and his guests interminably," Albie said comfortingly.

"Oh, we shall not stay at the inn," Saintignon said innocently. "For I have procured lodgings for us." At their surprised and puzzled expressions, he went on, "The Ferrises have very generously let their estate to us. So you see, Miss Makepeace," he laid a gloved hand on the side of the curricle next to her shoulder and lowered his face to hers, " _Lowesbrough_ can indeed accommodate us…interminably."

Tempest turned a dismayed face to Albie, and he later explained that the Ferrises were an older couple, without children, but most definitely with social-climbing proclivities. They were to learn that the Ferrises had been ousted from their manor - the grandest residence in Lowesbrough- in exchange for the loan of Saintignon's London address.

"Insufferable man!" raged Tempest as they drove off amid the laughter from the three men. "How I managed to keep my temper is quite beyond me! I wish he could be horsewhipped, or-or driven off a cliff! I wish he could be captured by Napoleon and-and _tortured_!"

"Er...oh, I say, Tempest…" was all Albie could reply. He was watching her with rounded eyes.

"I do apologize," she said earnestly. "Have I shocked you very much then? It's only that he's such a monster and I can't seem to shake free of him!"

"There's an easy solution to that, you know," Albie said, turning very red. "W-were you…married, o-or spoken for, a-at the very least, he would have no cause-that is, he would think twice before-I daresay the _law_ would prevent him f-from harassing you…"

"Oh, Albie, if only that were true!" Tempest said, his uncommon stammering washing over her in her worries. "But I fear he is a plague that will beset me unless I rout him. Imagine, in his madness, if he should kill someone I married!" She shuddered, not seeing Albie's wide eyes.

She was under no illusions as to her attraction for Saintignon. He had found his newest game, to make mockery of someone not his social equal, a woman of no particular gentle birth from outside his circles. And he would continue until he bored of his game, for Tempest could not see how she could turn his mind to new pastures.

"No, I fear he will keep at it until he bores of it. But see! These aristocrats are always beset by ennui over the tedium of their lives. Soon he shall leave Lowesbrough for new game, for there is surely nothing to keep him here!" Tempest said with confidence.


	14. Chapter 14

***This chapter was left out and should be read after Chapter 13.***

In that, she proved to be wrong.

The days turned into a week, and the Four Horsemen stayed at the Ferrises'. They were not alone. Those among them were rumored and name-dropped, but undoubtedly the Four Horsemen featured first in the gossip mills.

They were a constant source of fascination for Albie's younger sisters, Sarah and Sophie, especially for Sarah, who was to make her debut in London the following fall.

"I heard they are heart-stoppingly handsome," said Sarah into the lull of conversation.

"I heard they are wicked young men, too rich to do more than count their buckets and buckets of gold," added Sophie, who was still young enough to delight in fairy stories.

"What is so wicked about them? Do they steal or lie or cheat?" demanded Sarah.

"There are other ways to be wicked, dear," replied Mrs. Kadenbury. "Men who drink to excess, men who gamble their estates away, men who...well, let's just say that they can act very wicked towards women!" she amended, with a hard look at her girls, who knew better than to question what those wicked ways with women were, even though imagination fueled their fertile minds more than actual facts had they possessed them.

"Do they?" Sarah asked Albie and Tempest. "Do they drink and gamble and act wickedly towards women?"

Albie looked uncomfortable. "I've heard nought of drinking or gambling to excess," he admitted, "although they are so worshipped in Town that no one can say aught injurious to them."

"There, you see!" Sarah said triumphantly to her mother. "It is… _unchristian_ to listen to the grist mills, you've said so yourself!"

Mrs. Kadenbury, who did not venture to Town, had nothing to repartee.

"They are Rakes," Tempest proclaimed into the silence.

Everyone turned to look at her, as she had neglected to offer any opinion on the subject of the newcomers before. She saw with dismay that far from discouraging the girls, they looked titillated by her condemnation. Separated by a generation gulf, Mrs. Kadenbury looked quite shocked by her pronunciation, and Mr. Kadenbury, as usual, continued to smoke his pipe with equilibrium.

Unfortunately, her words failed to conclude the conversation, and the Four Horsemen continued to trot along in their conversations.

One afternoon, the butler announced callers, reeling out a list of names and then slinking away without staying to account for them.

"Send them in," said Mrs. Kadenbury comfortably. "It's probably the Naglethorpes. Angus always gets their names wrong."

Instead, it was Lady Susanna, Iolanthe Ackhurst, Elsa Arenberg, another lady by the name of Miss Federica Highgarden, and her brother, William Highgarden.

The girls, Albie, and Mrs. Kadenbury looked shell-shocked by the sudden appearance of this very glamorous looking group descending into their pretty, but comfortable drawing room.

"How very good it is to see you again," Tempest ventured to Lady Susanna, after seeing Mrs. Kadenbury struck by muteness. "Will you not all sit?" she invited, and received a hurried nod of approval from Mrs. Kadenbury.

"We'll have refreshments," said that venerable lady, calling for Angus, who trudged in and left with a grunt.

"What a character," drawled Iolanthe. "Not at all like our London butlers." She tittered with sidelong glances at her companions and Mrs. Kadenbury flushed.

"Yes, these family retainers are such characters, are they not?" interjected Lady Susanna. "I remember our old butler with such fondness, and your Angus puts me to mind of him."

In that moment, Tempest could easily have both slain Iolanthe for her malice and kissed Lady Susanna for her kindness.

"We have come to implore you to rescue us from tedium," Lady Susanna said. "The boys have arranged no entertainment for us and so by popular vote, we have elected to have a ball."

"Yes, the whole county is invited!" piped in Mr. Highgarden, who was a slim young gentleman with shirt collars that framed his cheekbones.

Sarah and Sophie turned identical supplicating faces to their mother, who looked helpless in the slew of new information.

"I'm afraid neither of the girls are out yet," Tempest explained. "Although Sarah will make her debut next fall."

"It shall be very informal," smiled an understanding Lady Susanna. "Naturally, both girls will have to come, and Mr. Kadenbury as well. It is more in the vein of, oh, let's say, a country assembly. We shan't stand on formality at all."

Mrs. Kadenbury looked uncomfortable. "If you say it is all right…"

"No one can say aught of them, and I promise that for the evening, they will be under my protection," Lady Susanna said, casting an imperious look about the room. "And Mrs. Kadenbury, as you are quite the hostess in Lowesbrough, I shall rely on you to help me plan the invitations."

Mrs. Kadenbury looked flattered, Elsa and Iolanthe looked bored, and Mr. Highgarden and Albie had started to exchange fashion tips.

True to her word, Mrs. Kadenbury was invited up to the Ferrises' to help with preparations and the invitations were duly sent out.

"I'm not going," Tempest told Albie flatly.

"Why on earth not?" exclaimed an emotional Sarah. She had been on tenderhooks ever since the illustrious visit from their callers, and anxious that the ball would be called off.

Tempest whirled around to see the two girls standing the open doorway to the parlor.

"I…do not have the best impression of the Four Horsemen," she explained weakly, though in her mind she excepted _him_ from the group.

"If you don't, I shan't either!" declared a loyal Sophie.

"Oh, Sophie, how can you! You know I can hardly bear going by myself. I shall feel so alone!" said a very put-upon Sarah.

"Well, I'm not even supposed to attend, really," Sophie said. "I won't be out for another year and a half!"

"I'm not out yet either!" said Sarah, looking so upset that she appeared on the verge of tears.

"Lady Susanna said you can go," Sophie said uncertainly. "Did she, Tempest?"

"Yes, yes she did, Sarah," said Tempest. "Dry your tears now. You won't want them to be puffy."

The tears stopped immediately. "Will you go, Tempest?" Sarah pleaded. "I know Lady Susanna will help us, but we don't know her, not _really_. And those other women were such cats! Oh, I couldn't bear it if they turned their claws on us at the ball. I swear I shall just burst into tears!"

"Don't swear," ordered Albie. Then, turning an imploring look on Tempest, "Will you go, and help control these two beasts?"

And so Tempest reluctantly agreed.


	15. Chapter 15

The day of the ball dawned clear and fair. The house was in a pandemonium as Sarah had woken up that morning and shrieked, "The day of the ball!" at the top of her lungs, alarming the entire household.

Preparations that had started ever since the invitations were received ensued. Tempest left to escape the madness.

She walked down the road that led to the town without aim. The night ahead promised nothing but a headache, especially if she should encounter Saintignon again. And she didn't dare think of him.

But she could as much stop her mind from wandering to Lord Rochefort as she could stop breathing from will alone.

He had called on her once in London after she collapsed but she had been incapacitated. He had not called again. Oh, he had sent a note, a very polite social note that looked as though his secretary had penned it and he had merely attached his signature to the bottom.

And she really shouldn't be thinking of him. He had kissed a married woman! Behaving wickedly towards women, yes, that was what he had done. They were rakes, the lot of them.

And yet, she found that she could not condemn him in her heart. He had sounded anguished. He had been younger than Lady Susanna, younger than Tempest was now, unable to do anything but watch as the one he loved got married and went away.

Such love, to still remain after such a long time had passed. Such devotion. The romantic in Tempest - almost suffocated by the mercenary nature of London society - found itself quite breathless.

Then, as though she had conjured him, she saw him. Sitting on a log under a tree beside the cold clear creek, just as though their meetings by the Thames had never stopped.

"Lord Rochefort," she hailed before she could stop herself.

He turned lazy eyes toward her.

"Are you well?" she asked, breathless with longing.

He laughed in his soft, soundless way. "I should ask you that. But no, I see you have reverted back to your healthy self and are traipsing through the country like any milkmaid."

She blushed and glanced down at herself. Despite the cold, she had broken a sweat, and her hem was five inches deep in the early dew.

"You look…very well," she said. Lord Rochefort wore casual dress and his cravat was even loosened around his strong neck. His hat lay on the ground next to him and his fair hair was ruffled by the wind. He looked so genteelly handsome that her heart thumped with yearning.

He laughed again. "Excuse my slovenly appearance. I was contemplating laying down in the grass, but I see that the dew hasn't yet been burnt off by the sun."

"Nor shall it, I expect, not this time of the year," said Tempest awkwardly.

He turned dreamy eyes toward her. "Well, then, Miss of Conflict-"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tempest. Makepeace. Quite a contradictory moniker, is it not?"

"Oh." Tempest laughed and sat on the log next to him.

"It's strange that it seems we've known each other for quite some time," he observed carelessly.

"Yes. I...I feel that way as well."

"Well, Miss Makepeace, I never had a chance to interrogate you. Did you or did you not overhear a very private conversation the night of the Arenberg ball?" he asked with raised eyebrows. "I take it by your blush that your answer is affirmative."

"I...I didn't mean to," she said hurriedly. "I received a note from the footman, you see, and…"

"Yes, I do see," he said. "Lady Susanna explained that little trick on you. It turned out to be fortunate that we were the occupants of those two rooms, was it not? For I feel that you are somewhat trustworthy and we saved you from a very unfortunate outcome."

"Oh, I am… Trustworthy, that is! And grateful! Both for that evening…and for carrying me home when I collapsed."

"No matter," he shrugged.

"You saved my life," she said simply. "Saintignon-"

"-is my friend," he said, "so I won't say anything detrimental to him. He does that so well all by himself." Rochefort laughed at his own words.

"You…and Lady Susanna," Tempest ventured. "That is, I think-"

"No thinking is required on your part," he said lightly but with an edge of steel.

"No, I mean...I don't mean to condemn! I think it's so sad, this unrequited love on your part!"

He laughed, turning his profile to her, his face towards the weak sun. "That's life, my girl. Always playing jokes on us."

"You never told her," Tempest said fiercely, disliking his levity. "You missed your chance all those years ago because you failed to tell her. She loved you too!"

"Like a brother," he agreed equably.

"No! Not just a brother. She never…don't you see, she never had a chance to see you otherwise! You never gave her the chance! You were a coward!" she accused.

"Mmm," was all he replied.

"And you still are!" she continued, not knowing exactly what she was saying.

He raised his eyebrows at her. They were slim, well-shaped, elegant eyebrows, like everything else about him. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're still a coward!" she raged. "You hide from life by pretending disinterest and coldness. You hide all your emotions away! No wonder you never had a chance with her! You never gave yourself a chance-the chance to lose everything," she finished passionately.

"Such passion," he said. "Such fervor! You and Saintignon were made for one another."

"I'm not in jest."

"My dear girl, do you know what you propose? Lady Susanna is very much a married woman. To do as you suggest is to recklessly request she engage in acts of adultery with me. Is that what you are suggesting?"

Tempest blushed furiously. "No! I-I don't know what I'm saying. Only that you shouldn't lock yourself away. You can't win at life if you only stand by, watching!"

"Ah. Faint heart never won fair lady?"

"Something similar, I suppose."

"Well, you are certainly a very forthright young lady," he said. "Thank you for that, and your...er-advice. I shall bear it in mind. Now, I suppose we had better separate. I, to find where my horse has gone, and you, presumably to prepare."

He stood, clearly dismissing her, and swept his hat from the grass. He tilted it at her and bowed. "Good day, Miss Conflict. We shall meet again."

Then Rochefort walked off with long, elegant strides, leaving a small part of Tempest's heart aching for him.

Every window in the Ferrises' manor house was lit when they drove up that evening, squeezed into the Kadenbury traveling carriage.

"They have done such a lot in so short a time," said Sarah, peering out the window with her mouth open. "Look, there, they have fixed the fountain that Mrs. Ferris was too cheap to fix. And, they must have replanted the shrubberies that dried up last year."

The Kadenburies all obligingly looked and commented on the changes to the estate. Tempest, who had never seen the residence in its former state, looked out and saw that the drive was lit in a blaze of lights, and footmen - dozens of footmen - were bearing torches like human statues.

"Didn't even know there were this many young men in Lowesbrough," said Mr. Kadenbury. "And how have they managed to procure matching togs in such a short amount of time?"

But there were more extravagances in store for them. The front steps were carpeted, and they could see that every window was lit. The draperies were drawn in every window and garlands of hothouse flowers were lit by blazing candlelabra.

Again, the decoration drew comment.

"It's such a waste of such lovely blooms," mourned Mrs. Kadenbury.

"If the ballroom is lit with that many candles, the smell of tallow and smoke will drive me right out!" vowed Sophie, and the others laughed.

"Maybe it will be beeswax candles,"said Sarah.

"Much too extravagant," said a disapproving Mrs. Kadenbury, "even for… for a tzar!"

They never found out what kind of candles were used, but of a certainty they were not tallow, for the rooms did not smoke. They were treated with the utmost respect and received a welcome none had ever received before, with multiples of footmen to hand them out, and Lady Susanna at the top of the stairs to greet them with every effusiveness and thank Mrs. Kadenbury especially for her kind help.

Then, they were left to circle the ballroom. Sarah and Sophie soon waved at friends in the county that they had not seen for a time. Although Tempest had been left to her own devices, the festive decorations and the merry air, with some quite young guests running about in giggles, made the occasion seem much less rigid than the balls held in London, and she found herself relaxing as well.

She smiled as she witnessed two young dancers stumbling over the steps of a country dance and backed away when they would have turned the wrong way and stamped onto her gown. Her back came up against a pillar that turned into the intimidating person of Dominic Saintignon.

"Oh!" she gasped as she sought to step away from him.

He caught her wrist before she could bump into the dancers. She lurched, suspended in space for a moment, before returning unwillingly back into his sphere. "Thank you," she said warily, trying ineffectively to free her hand.

Saintignon stared at her with fathomless black eyes. "Is...the ball to your liking?"

"I suppose that it must… It certainly is very extravagant," she said.

"But not to your taste?" he pursued.

What an odd day it had been, Tempest suddenly thought. A strange encounter by the creek with Lord Rochefort, and now Saintignon, of all people, inquiring if his ball was to her liking.

"It is a lovely ball," she said, deciding to be pleasant. "And a treat for the locals."

"Yes, it is indeed," he said, the look of lordly disdain reclaiming his face. "I doubt many of them have ever seen the inside of a ballroom before."

Tempest's civility ebbed away. "Yes, and yet they manage to live useful, productive lives. There are many, many of them, and only one Dominic Saintignon. I wonder what would happen if they suddenly chose to rise up and rebel against the society order. Would they then cart you off to the guillotine as they did in France?"

"Good God, you're an anarchist," Saintignon said with disgust. "It is a pity we do not live in Russia. They know how to keep people in line-"

Tempest would have never declared herself so, but he was insufferable. "People like you give rise to people like me," she said coldly before turning away from him.

Behind her, she heard Lord Nigel's voice say, "For the love of God, leave it be. There are so many tempting dishes in the world and you must fixate on that one?"

Tempest didn't turn around, certain it was Lord Nigel trying to force a tidbit from Saintignon that he refused to relinquish. She wanted to tell Lord Nigel that given Saintignon's stubborn disposition, it was unlikely anyone could make him do what he didn't wish to do!


	16. Chapter 16

The night wore on.

Temperatures outside dropped and gaiety rose inside. It was as though the sound of increasing gales of wind outside only served to delight those indoors, gleeful that they did not have to venture outside this night, and because the coolness of the night rendered an otherwise stuffy ballroom into a glittering oasis. The wind sent the curtains lining the row of windows facing the courtyard fluttering like so many gauzy debutante skirts whirling in pirouettes. The chandeliers closest to the windows would flutter and some would blow out, causing many to shriek in delight.

There was something to be said for the strictures of London's stern patronesses, after all. There was an air of recklessness that never existed in Almack's, fueled by the quality of the excellent refreshments, which were not usually the finest.

She wandered about, chatting with locals she had met on her stay, being introduced to one or another. Her flounce ripped; she repaired to the anteroom to fix it.

Once there, she heard a voice she almost thought she had escaped this night.

"It is Lady Susanna's swansong. She's leaving her husband, depend on it. The Four Horsemen have made it as extravagant as they could in these parts of the country _for her_ ," Iolanthe was saying.

"How can you know such things, Iolanthe? It fair boggles the mind how you come by such _on-dits_."

"I have ways," Iolanthe said in a purposefully mysterious and also superior voice.

"I'm glad she's getting her comeuppance. She _monopolizes_ them and never affords any other girl a chance," said a third voice with unusual venom.

Tempest realized with shock that the speaker was Elsa Arenberg. Even suspecting as she did of the girl's perfidy, she never had concrete proof, and now here it was, Elsa's hatred of anyone who stood between her and the Four Horsemen.

 _And may you enjoy joy and happiness with them!_ Tempest thought with disgust.

"But why would she leave her husband?" queried the third voice that Tempest thought might be Miss Highgarden.

"It is said," said Iolanthe, lowering her voice, "that he's a philanderer."

"No! But Lady Susanna is a diamond of the first water!"

"Yes! And perhaps she is _not_ a diamond where it matters," said Iolanthe slyly.

Tempest decided she would not listen to any more. But how was she to leave the room without being seen?

"Perhaps he bored of her saintly ways," drawled Elsa.

Yes, Elsa sounded decidedly _foxed_. Perhaps the spirits had been flowing a bit more liberally than in London ballrooms.

"I heard she refuses to return to him after this last escapade."

"I suppose she will repair to the country," said Miss Highgarden sagely. "All neglected wives do."

"Ah!" said Iolanthe. "But Lady Susanna is _not_ your normal neglected wife. She is headed to the wilds of Africa with a missionary group and funding them out of her own pocket!"

"That's so romantic," said Miss Highgarden dreamily. "A neglected wife finding out the perfidy of her husband and running to barbarian lands. Perhaps he'll find her and chase her back!"

"That is terribly unlikely, considering her husband doesn't give two figs for her."

Tempest bit down on her fist to prevent from speaking out. The girls left the anteroom, gossiping away. Her heart went out to Lady Susanna. But of course, it could just be malicious gossip…?

Almost immediately, she had the chance to find out, because Lady Susanna came in, laughing. "Oh!" the older lady said, seeing Tempest. "Why, I haven't seen you all evening, Tempest. Are you enjoying the ball?"

"It's lovely," Tempest said, honestly. "I've never seen so many fresh flowers, or such lovely decorations."

"It's gilt, my dear," Lady Susanna said, with a overbright glint in her eyes. "I had the servants gild endless containers with paint. I suppose, in the candlelight, it looks like gold."

"It certainly does. Lady Susanna…" Tempest began, and then broke off apologetically. "I...don't wish to be...impertinent."

"Tempest, dear," Lady Susanna said, glancing sideways at her. "You have a lovely heart and kind intentions. I shan't believe you guilty of impertinence. Caring too much, perhaps."

"I heard the most nasty rumor," Tempest blurted out. "You...are not surely going to Africa?"

"I am indeed," Lady Susanna said, calmly. "And it isn't a nasty rumor in the least. It's a most noble endeavor, would not you agree? I shall be accompanying the Society of the Christian Ladies for the Betterment of the Lives of the African Heathens. Well," she said, smiling a bit. "I do not believe that the beginning of civilization is rife with heathens, but that is the name of the society, I'm afraid."

"Will you not return to Vienna? What about your husband?"

Lady Susanna's hand froze in midair, for just a moment. She took a deep breath and turned to face Tempest. "Dear Tempest, I know you have my best wishes at heart, and so I shall tell you. My marriage is over. That is, it shall continue on paper, but we shall never live together again. My husband...has no love for me, and I suspect that the lack of it has worn away my love for him, little by little. He has great and noble ambitions, I believe, and because of that, he decided to marry me. I...admired him a great deal, you see. But the gulf is too wide between such disparate origins. I shall always be a rich man's daughter, content to while away the days in endless frivolity. And he shall always be the ambitious younger son who married a lord's daughter."

Lady Susanna laughed sadly. "We can never be, you see, in his mind. He is a great man, but I fear he is locked into his own prejudices."

"You are _not_ frivolous, Lady Susanna!" Tempest said with fire. "Why, you are...you are the kindest lady I have met this Season! You go out of your way to befriend the weak and...and now you are going into the wilds of Africa for a benevolent purpose!"

"I only do what I can," Lady Susanna said mildly. "I can never achieve what my husband has already done, changed laws for the poor, for entire countries. Alas, but such is the fate of all women!"

Tempest shook her head wildly. "Does Lord Rochefort know?" she demanded.

Lady Susanna raised an eyebrow. "Harry? What has Harry to do with this?"

"Will you not tell him? Does he not know of...of your problems?"

"What can he do?" Lady Susanna said with a laugh. "Oh, Tempest, how old you make me feel! How old and young, all at once! You make me believe in romance and ideals again...but such is impossible."

"If you go again, without telling Lord Rochefort, you will break his heart."

"Once upon a time, that may have been true," Lady Susanna said. "But it was a boy's heart. Harry is no longer the same, even towards me. I had thought that he and you…" she drifted off, but not before she glanced at Tempest.

"I!" Tempest said, hand going to her mouth. "Never. He remains true to _you_ , Lady Susanna."

Lady Susanna laughed and stood up. "Well, we have spent quite enough time in here. It is a ball, is it not? And my last one for a very, very long time. Come, Tempest. Should we not have a chance to speak again, I pray that all good things come to you, for you are such a dear!"

It was a dismissal, a very kind dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. However, as Tempest thought she had spoken out of turn, she obediently followed Lady Susanna out into the ballroom again.

Hours passed. She hadn't seen a glimpse of Lord Rochefort. Where was he?

There!

She caught a glimpse of a tall fair head above the crowd, but when he turned around, it turned out to be someone else. She stopped, stymied.

If she were Lord Rochefort, where would she go?

And the answer came to her all at once.

After asking a servant, she walked down a hallway lit only by a single, wavering candle and let herself into the conservatory. It was a large room, a building onto itself attached to the back wall of the estate. The ceilings were high overhead, revealing a roiling sky above. In daylight, the room must flood with sunlight and the plants bloom with glorious life. The deep darkness of night and walking through foreign architecture made Tempest step cautiously forward.

The room was vibrant with the scent of flowers and fruit, moist, and almost unbearably warm after the drafts in the halls. Tempest took off her shawl and looped it over her arm.

Then she heard it, the sound of a flute. Except it was not lifted in song, but had one note playing, endlessly, aimlessly.

"Lord Rochefort?" she called softly.

The flute stopped.

Tempest moved forward, and a light reflected off the main building shone through the glass walls of the conservatory. She saw Lord Rochefort reclining on a bench, feet up, head resting on one arm, and the flute held to his mouth with one hand. He faced the window, and Tempest saw that the dancing, laughing figures of the ballroom were clearly visible from the darker interior of the greenhouse.

"Lord Rochefort," she said.

"There you are," he said. "I had wondered when my shadow would be along."

It was said in a playful voice, but it hurt a little. As though she followed him along through life like an obedient puppy. If she could stop this attraction towards him, she would. If only Dominic Saintignon had not waved his puppeteer hands and brought all the Horsemen to Lowesbrough!

"I'll leave you be," she said miserably.

"She's going to Africa," he said, stopping her in her tracks.

Tempest turned back around. "Yes, she told me."

"She won't be back for years," he said softly.

"She's leaving her husband," Tempest told him bluntly.

He said nothing. The flute blew out one long, lonely note. And then again.

She tried again. "He's no good for her. They're no good for each other."

The flute resounded again.

"You must speak to her," Tempest said. "This is...this is _killing_ you. Will you not give yourself a chance?"

"What chance?" he murmured.

"The chance of a happy ending."

"If I speak to her, I will be tempting her to an unforgivable sin," he said.

"From what I had heard, her husband had done plenty of that on his own," she said sharply.

He stilled his hand and twisted his head around to gaze at her. "All on his own?" he said.

Tempest blushed. "Oh! You know what I mean!"

"Yes, I do, dear girl. Well, what would you have me do?"

"There is nothing I can tell you to do that I haven't said already," she said. "Only you know if you will give yourself a chance. You have been living in limbo. I-I can see that."

He let out a breath of air, soft as silk. "Yes. Limbo."

"Be happy, Lord Rochefort," Tempest pleaded. "You deserve happiness."

He looked at her again. "Do I? Why me, of all the Horsemen? Have we not harassed you enough?"

"It wasn't _your_ doing!" she denied vehemently. "It was the work of Saintignon!"

"Yes, Saintignon never does anything half-heartedly, one must give him that. He never doubts, he never wonders, he only _does_."

"Yes, much as a beast would," she retorted.

"I wonder how that one behaves in love," Rochefort mused.

"Like an animal, undoubtedly," she dismissed. "If he were even capable of love."

"You care fiercely and you hate fiercely. Would you love fiercely too?" Rochefort said, half to himself.

 _I would_ , Tempest thought sadly, _if it were you_.

She left Lord Rochefort to himself and walked slowly down the hallway, holding the shawl tightly around her. Almost, almost, she had gone to find him, _not_ to tell him to go to Lady Susanna, but to... Tempest held a hand to her hot cheeks, despite the chill through the hallway. If Lord Rochefort possessed even an iota of such intense, silent feelings for her, _she_ would not be blind, Tempest thought. She would...she would…

Yes, she was brazen. She was a _hussy_ for even thinking it.

She would have welcomed him into her arms.

There were footsteps behind her.

Tempest whirled around, but the draft had blown out the candle in the hallway without her even noticing it.

It was Lord Rochefort, it _must_ be. He had decided to...he had…

The footsteps slowed and stopped.

If only the moon would come out from behind the clouds, Tempest thought fiercely. Then she could see the look on Lord Rochefort's face. It _must_ be him, it must be. There had been no one else in the hallway, no one else in the conservatory.

She reached out a hand and it was held by a firm grasp. Tempest closed her eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

Tempest found herself in a gentle, almost tentative embrace.

There wasn't the scent of sandalwood as she had expected, but something else. Something woodsy, piney. Her face was being caressed by a light, gloved touch, tilted upwards for a soft, slow kiss against warm lips.

It _felt_ like gloves.

But Lord Rochefort hadn't been wearing gloves.

He had been playing on his flute. His gloves had been clasped in the hand behind his head, in a flash of white that stood out in the darkness of the conservatory.

Tempest grew cold and pushed at the hard chest against her. Instantly, the grasp tightened, as if to prevent Tempest from escaping.

A light flickered behind her, and they jerked apart. Tempest saw only the back of a servant's livery as he moved away from them, bearing an unmistakable long-armed candle lighter as he went around the estate to relight dimmed candles.

The light was far from them, but enough to cast them in a flickering glow. A glow that revealed her tryst to be none other than Dominic Saintignon, Marquis Talleyrand, himself.

"You!" Tempest gasped into his face for the second time that night.

He looked nearly as nonplussed as she was. His lips were slightly reddened, and his black hair mussed.

Tempest took another stumbling step backwards.

"I-" Saintignon appeared less certain of himself for a moment and then recovered, brows snapping together. "Who did you think it was?" he growled.

Tempest flushed and reached up to scrub at her lips. "It was a dark hallway! I couldn't see, now could I! I thought I was being...attacked!"

"Attacked?" he roared.

"How dare you kiss me?" Tempest raged at him, alternately wiping her mouth with the edge of her shawl. "Is this another of your tricks? Were you following me?"

The glow from the candlelight was distant and low, but she could have sworn Saintignon blushed.

"It is a large estate, madam," he said frostily. "Had I been following you, it would have been for your own good."

"When have you ever acted for my good?" Tempest said, almost in tears. "You are a villain! How dare you embrace me without my consent?"

"I-I-" Saintignon himself was at a loss for words.

Tempest ran.

The ball had been entirely ruined for her.

The ball was discussed for days on end by the Kadenbury household.

Even Mr. Kadenbury, not usually one to insert himself into conversations, could be heard to muse on the quality of the madeira and scotch, both of which had been liberally dispensed within the card rooms at the ball.

"A very fine collection of liqueurs," he was heard to say. "Very fine cheroots, very fine indeed. I heard the Saintignons own several tobacco plantations in the Americas. A fine thing indeed."

Not unnaturally, the ball was the topmost topic for the girls Sarah and Sophie. Sarah, in between discussing which of the young men could be considered future suitors, dreamily talked of the Four Horsemen. "Except Lord Rochefort, of course, for he did not appear at all. How unsociable he is!" she muttered.

"They are certainly much more accommodating than the Ferrises, are they not, my dear?" murmured Mrs. Kadenbury over embroidery. "For I cannot imagine the Ferrises opening up their home to such a lot of locals. Why, they hardly ever condescend to invite us."

Even Albie had been brought around to the wonders of the Four Horsemen, who were unparalleled in any and all of the skilled arts a gentleman should possess.

Tempest thought she could scream. She wondered if it was an opportune time to bring up her departure for London. She wondered how Saintignon could have stood to kiss her - but she did not ponder this long, for her face would soon be completely flushed with color. Certainly, at one point, he had kidnapped her and brought her to his house!

"Why, Tempest, are you quite all right? You're very flushed," said a concerned Mrs. Kadenbury.

So Tempest turned her mind to less embarrassing thoughts, at least in public.

She wondered if Lady Susanna and Lord Rochefort had had a chance to speak in that large, drafty house, or if Lord Rochefort was still cloistered in the conservatory, blowing out that lone note. She wondered if Lady Susanna would most definitely leave for Africa. But it was such a large venture. Tempest could not imagine such a thing. But people in Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble did not often leave their home unless it was to market or the occasional fair.

"The Fair will be held a few days hence," Albie was saying. "You must at least stay for that, Tempest. It will be pleasant and remind you of home."

"Yes, and we have had a note from Lady Susanna, inviting us for a breakfast. It is certainly very congenial of her," said Mrs. Kadenbury.

"She's like the princess from a fairy tale," breathed Sophie. "Those golden curls… I wager her husband is a prince, and Saintignon is a villain trying to separate them. Oh, his eyes fair gave me the willies!"

"Don't be a _complete_ widgeon," snapped Sarah. "Lord Talleyrand is a fine figure of a gentleman, and certainly no villain. Why, he's the most handsome of them all."

"When is the breakfast?" asked Tempest in desperation, before her cheeks started flaming again.

The breakfast was the following day. Tempest had considered not attending, but the county grapevine had it that Lady Susanna would be leaving directly after. It was to be a farewell breakfast.

Tempest bit down on any objections she had and left with the others for the Ferris' manor.

It looked quite different in the daylight. A breakfast party was held at the relatively early hour of ten of the clock. Only around half of the liveried footmen still remained. After the festivity of the ball, the air of the household seemed somber, as though the occupants were already bemoaning Lady Susanna's departure.

It turned out that there was a good reason for the quiet air hanging over the estate. A number of the London party had apparently been sent their way, chief among them Iolanthe Ackhurst, Elsa Arenberg, and Miss and Mr. Highgarden. Tempest felt almost cheered by the thought.

"I do thank you all for coming," said a smiling Lady Susanna dressed in a pretty morning gown. "It's really not very fancy at all, but I felt quite at home here and wished… Well, suffice it to say that not having been in England for any number of years now, the welcome I received in Lowesbrough quite left me breathless. I shall remember this place very fondly indeed."

There were no more private words to be had. The magistrate of a neighboring county had come on an extended stay, as he had known Lady Susanna's family well, and he gave a long speech during the breakfast on what a brave lady she was, with such a pioneering spirit, to carry out God's mighty works in such unforgiving territory. Nothing at all was mentioned about her husband or her childlessness, whereas for a less titled lady, the commentary would have been far more scathing.

Each of the Four Horsemen, who had known her any number of years, stood up to toast her for her bravery and her stupidity (that was Saintignon), except for Lord Rochefort.

Lord Rochefort's absence was noted but dismissed by most as his penchant for privacy was well known. But it was noted by both Lady Susanna and Tempest, who saw the wistfulness in that lady's eyes.

It turned out to be an actual send-off. Lady Susanna's escort had ridden ahead to the next town, and her servants were on an accompanying carriage. They were to set off to her country estate, and then to Liverpool, where they would set sail with the other members of the Society of Christian Ladies.

The Kadenburies were gathered on the steps with the other members of the breakfast party. Servants milled about, being ordered here and there. Last minute arrangements were shouted aloud.

Tempest stood at the top of the stairs, watching for Lord Rochefort, who was still nowhere in sight.

"Damn Rochefort!" said a voice next to Tempest, echoing her thoughts. "He should be here to send her off."

Tempest swiveled her head to see Saintignon next to her. He frowned down at the congregation below. Somehow, his comment and the melancholy air of the day relaxed her defenses. She didn't reply immediately, and he didn't move from her side.

"Do you think it is love, if one never speaks of it?" Tempest said to the air.

He frowned forbiddingly. "How can it be love if one never speaks of it? If it be love, then let one proclaim it from the rooftops!"

How right was Rochefort, thought Tempest. Saintignon, half man, half beast, spoke of love as though he could conquer the emotion.

"What would you do if the one you loved didn't return your feelings?" Tempest asked the air. "Is it love to let them go?"

She did not expect an answer. She thought of Lord Rochefort and his feelings, buried away from public view, that all but the discerning eye of an infatuated girl overlooked. She thought of his ideas of love, which mostly verged on the unrequited. Was it love? She did not quite know herself. Was what she felt for Lord Rochefort love? How could it be love if it were unrequited?

"Certainly not," said Saintignon.

Tempest gazed at him unseeingly. She had the vague impression that he had been staring at her for a very long time, but today, all hatred and thoughts of vengeance were far from her thoughts.

"If you loved a person who didn't return your feelings, you should do all that you can to make that person happy so that they _do_ return your feelings. You should never stop trying," he said with vehemence.

She looked at him with almost admiration. Here was someone, she thought, who had such supreme confidence that he never doubted, never wondered if it were love. If he loved, he would run headlong after it and scare the girl silly!

Of course, if it were Elsa Arenberg, he wouldn't need to run at all, she thought wryly.

"That is a very brave mentality," she said. "Most people do not have enough certainty or confidence in their feelings being returned. I suppose it is in our nature to be afraid."

"If a person is fearful in love, that person need never bother to love at all," he replied scornfully.

"There's Lord Rochefort!" she exclaimed suddenly, seeing him emerge from a path from the side of the house. She ran forward.

He was pulling on gloves, dressed in a beaver and a greatcoat with many capes. Dressed for travel. Her heart thudded.

"Are you leaving Lowesbrough, Lord Rochefort?" she asked.

Rochefort gazed down at her troubled face and smiled faintly. "Yes, thanks to your rallying speech, I find that I am."

Tempest clasped her hands together, unable to speak.

"Bound for where, exactly?" demanded Saintignon behind her.

"I find, dear friends, that I am bound for Liverpool, and thereafter, Gibraltar, and eventually...Capetown or thereabouts."

Tempest gazed at him with glittering eyes.

Lord Rochefort swung onto the horse the groom led out for him. "Fare thee well, friends, and my little shadow, I hope to return some day to find you well."

"She will be," Saintignon growled, but Tempest did not hear him.

"Lord Rochefort!" she said, finding her voice. "Are you really...are you really going after her?"

"I am," he said, smiling. "I find that I am. Thanks to you."

"I wish you all the luck in the world," Tempest said earnestly. "Godspeed and God bless you."

"Well, well, well," smirked Lord Nigel behind them as Lord Rochefort rode away. "Finally, the old boy summoned up the courage to do what he should have done ages ago."

"Never thought he would actually make a bid for her," said Lord Marchmont, shaking his head.

"And to surprise her in Liverpool," Lord Nigel said. "What I wouldn't give to be there to see the expression on her face."

"Fifty pounds that she sends him packing," Marchmont replied promptly.

"Done! Our Lady Susanna is too much of a lady to send anyone packing, and so I wager. Miss Makepeace, bear witness."

Tempest almost laughed. Perhaps it was the nip in the air, the drop in the temperature that heralded snow, or the camaraderie of people watching a beloved friend drive off into the unknown, but for a moment, she could almost believe they were not at loggerheads with each other.

"Miss Makepeace," said Saintignon as a small band moved into position for a grand send-off.

Tempest glanced at him, surprised by his diffident tone.

And then with a loud clatter, the carriages bearing Lady Susanna and her entourage set off loudly across the cobblestones, with the band striking up a tune.

Saintignon said something, but all she could catch were "fair" and "attend" from Saintignon's moving lips in-between the strident notes of the band.

"Two o'clock," he said to an uncomprehending Tempest when the notes of the instruments faded to a lower volume. He fixed black eyes on her, as though trying to hypnotize her. "Do not forget."


	18. Chapter 18

***If you are rereading this as Chapter 18, then please note that a new chapter was inserted as Chapter 14. Subsequently, Chapters 14-17 were pushed up a number. If you are a newcomer to this fanfic, then disregard this notice.***

What had that been about?

Tempest did not ask Saintignon to repeat himself. They were not on such good terms.

She merely smiled vaguely and nodded, as though interested in whatever he appeared to have been saying. It was a strange thing, for her to have been conversing with that hated man just as though he were anyone, and not the man who had been her dreaded nemesis all those weeks ago in London.

But here in Lowesbrough, with the flakes of snow drifting down, softly covering up the remnants of human existence, it was hard to think of London, of its grimy skies, the sour smells of the streets, the endless clatter of people moving about, and the continuous brightness of candlelight to light each evening into the early hours. Her vendetta with Saintignon seemed so long ago, especially when he had done nothing more ominous than that dreadful kiss since then.

It wasn't _dreadful_ , exactly. What it was was hard to explain exactly. It was tentative… and _gentle_. That was why it had been difficult to believe it was he and not Rochefort. Surely, Saintignon was in the habit of mauling women, not treating them to almost…untried and innocent kisses.

Perhaps he was in the habit of accosting women in dark hallways. In which case, he had not targeted her at all. In which case, her first kiss was also a meaningless, stolen kiss borne of mistaken identify.

There was a small relief in knowing her tribulations with Saintignon were over. Her last encounter with him had almost been civil. A small relief and… was it a slight let-down she was feeling as well?

No! Tempest rejected the thought immediately. What was there to regret about being harassed by the most prominent and feared lord in England?

And yet, it had given her a distinction that several months under Lady Islington's tutelage had not, continued that small sneaky voice.

Tempest squashed down any such rebellious thoughts.

She had a moment of surprisingly non-confrontational conversation with Saintignon. To not be able to comprehend his last words to her was the least of her worries and not in the least surprising, given their tumultuous interactions to date. She wouldn't dwell on Saintignon further. Her thoughts were on Lord Rochefort.

Where was he now? Had he spoken with Lady Susanna? Did they, even now, have an understanding? Would they be married if Lady Susanna could obtain a divorce decree? Surely it round not be difficult for them, as they were both well-connected. Their family estates matched alongside one another. Had Lord Rochefort been lady Susanna's senior, doubtless they would have been betrothed from birth.

On and on ran her thoughts all during the following week, during which most everyone was forced indoors. No more invitations were forthcoming or expected from the Ferris manor, especially now that only bachelors were in residence.

"I don't know how I shall be able to wait until the next Season," was Sarah's common theme, when their lives turned back into humdrum routine and forced captivity after the departure of Lady Susanna and the arrival of the snowstorm.

The Lowesbrough Fair was to herald in the coming spring. Instead, this year, it was accompanied with a late snowstorm that prevented anyone from leaving or entering the area. The Fair would still go on, however, taking place next to the lake, parts of which had frozen overnight.

"Do you think they'll attend the Fair?" Sarah was wont to ask. "I heard Lord Nigel is very partial to a plum pudding and I told Gertrude Halthorpe, who told her brother, who told Matthew Camden, who spoke in Lord Nigel's vicinity, that there always was a plum pudding contest at the Fair, on account of so many village ladies making their own plum jam."

Everyone in the Kadenbury household, including Tempest, had heard this recital many times since Lady Susanna's breakfast and refrained from saying anything in response, although once Albie said crossly, "Would you leave off talking of them?"

Almost a month had passed since Tempest left London. The enforced togetherness of the Kadenburies from the snowstorm had everyone in a temper, and Tempest began to pray for a break in the weather so she could take her leave as well.

Then, the first day of the Fair dawned, and miraculously, the sun emerged to shine weakly over white fields. Icicles formed all around the house and the roads were gleaming and iced over with melted and refrozen snow.

"I don't like the thought of venturing out in this weather," said Mrs. Kadenbury uneasily. "It was after such weather that old Mrs. Trent suffered a fall and she was gone not soon after."

But none of the younger people took heed. The house arrest was finally over, and everyone wanted to go out, especially since Albie informed them that the Fair _always_ went on, rain or shine.

"I want to get my fortune told by the gypsies!" shouted Sophie.

"It's such a waste of money," scorned Sarah, but her eyes glittered with excitement all the same.

And so a bundled up group consisting of Albie, Sarah, Sophie, and Tempest made their way slowly through the village towards the Fair on sleigh.

"It feels almost like Christmas again," said Sophie, as the answering jingle of sleigh bells resounded through the chilly air, and Tempest had to agree.

"Last year, we wore our muslins by this time, do you recall?" Sarah said, shivering under the blanket.

Their noses were red with the cold when they arrived, but it was a heartwarming banner and festive sight that greeted them. The Fair was still on, and there were endless cups of hot cocoa to prove it.

"Are you not glad you stayed, Tempest?" Albie said, after the two girls had gone off towards the Gypsies' tents.

"Oh, yes, this is much grander than the fairs in Cheltendon," agreed Tempest with fervor. "We didn't have Gypsies there, with shows and acrobats. Only the pie-eating contest!"

"Yes, and you were quite a hand at that too, as I recall!"

They laughed merrily and debated which parts of the Fair to visit.

"If the weather holds, we can return tomorrow," Albie said. "Although I don't like the look of those clouds."

"Will it snow again? The weather here is quite different from Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble."

"I don't believe so… But a sudden thaw can sometimes be much worse, since the creek has been steadily rising. A sudden thaw would mean the streets will be flooded. It would be hell to ride through the village for upper ground and we would be stranded until the waters receded."

They were hailed by Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel, who were, Tempest blushed to note, accompanied by very attractive ladies with too much paint and low decolletage despite the weather.

"Ah, are you here with Kadenbury again?" asked Lord Nigel with a raised eyebrow. Both his arms were claimed by the racily-clad women.

"Have you not seen Saint?" inquired Lord Marchmont. He took out his watch and surveyed it before putting it back in his pocket.

"No," Tempest replied coolly. "There's no reason why I should."

Lord Nigel grinned wolfishly at her, raising his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

Lord Marchmont shook his head slightly. "I could have sworn...well, have at it, then, children!"

"Ta," said Lord Nigel in negligent farewell and then Tempest and Albie were alone again.

"Did you mark the women with them?" asked Albie with wide eyes.

Tempest wondered why those two men insisted on asking _her_ of Saintignon's whereabouts almost every time they chanced to meet. After all, there was no reason why…

 _The steps of the Ferris manor._

 _Saintignon's mouth moving._

" _Would you attend the Fair with me?"_ he was saying this time.

Tempest shook her head. No, surely not.

" _I shall call for you at two o'clock on the first day, if it pleases you."_

" _Two o'clock. Do not forget."_

 _Intent black eyes locked on hers, a satisfied nod, and Saintignon striding away on long legs._

 _Tempest staring after him with befuddled eyes._

Tempest stood stock still. Surely not! Surely that had not been an invitation!

"Tempest?" Albie asked. "Is everything all right?"

"What time is it?" Tempest asked anxiously.

"It's now gone a quarter past four. Why, whatever's the matter?"

Tempest did not know why she cared, but she thought of Saintignon asking to escort her to the Fair, and her careless nod to signify civil acquiescence with whatever social nonsense he had been saying.

Except it had not been social nonsense.

Oh, the devil take the man! Tempest thought with acerbity, using the strongest curse she knew. Wouldn't it be just like him to imagine an appointment when none existed and create a furor when she didn't show, using _that_ as reason to torment her again? Not that he had ever needed a logical reason!

"Albie, I must return to the house immediately! Please!" Tempest pleaded.

Perhaps Albie would have protested had some locals not come running up, crying, "Mr. Kadenbury, your sister slipped on the ice and had a bad fall!"

Albie looked harassed. "If it's not one thing, it's another! Let us see what has befallen my sister!"

It turned out Sarah had a bad sprain, and her ankle was rapidly beginning to swell to double the size.

"It looks very painful, Sarah, and it has swollen so quickly," Tempest said in concern over the girl sitting on a log beside the lake. Sarah's foot was bared to the elements, the small foot pale and white next to the swollen red ball that was her ankle. Both her and Sophie's shawl were both draped over her shoulders. Her lips looked white and pinched.

"I-I tried to walk, but it got worse and worse," said Sarah in a small, miserable voice.

"How long has it been like this?" Tempest asked.

"She was limping a little after we tried to walk across the lake with the others," offered Sophie with a shrug. "The ice started to crack and she fell. We went back to shore at once. That was before we had the sweetmeats and _that_ was before we bought the ribbons."

"Why, that must have been ages ago," Tempest said.

"You've gone and made it worse by walking all over the Fair like this!" said Albie crossly. "We should have taken you home immediately!"

Sarah burst into tears, sobbing she had not wanted to leave so early.

"Stop yelling at her!" Sophie shouted. She looked fierce, standing with her hands on her hips. "She feels horribly enough without everyone yelling at her."

"Dearest, do you think you can manage holding onto our shoulders and hopping over to the sleigh?" Tempest asked. She didn't like how Sarah was beginning to shiver uncontrollably. Inactivity coupled with the sudden onslaught of pain was taking its toll.

"I'll...try," Sarah said.

And try she did, until she huffed and said, "I...can't! Albie, I just can't go any further!" She sounded on the verge of tears.

"Let me help," said Lord Nigel suddenly from behind them.

Effortlessly, he scooped Sarah up into his arms and strode off in the direction they were headed. "You had better lead the way, Kadenbury. Are your horses in that stable over there? Best run ahead and ready the sleigh."

Kadenbury ran up ahead.

"Where's Lord Marchmont?" asked Tempest, trotting to keep up with Lord Nigel.

"He left already. He's not keen on plum puddings," Lord Nigel said, keeping a straight face when Tempest looked sharply at him.

They soon had the sleigh readied and Sarah bundled up with blankets and hot bricks. She looked so miserable that even being carried by Lord Nigel hadn't brightened her mood a bit.

"Have you seen Saintignon?" Tempest asked in a low voice when they were by themselves.

Lord Nigel glanced sideways at her, all levity gone for the moment. "No, I haven't. I had thought you would be here with him."

Then it really was as she had thought. He _had_ invited her, in such a slapdash manner that she hadn't even known of it! But more fool her, for nodding politely and assuming nothing of importance had been said.

"Do you think...he will be at the house?" she asked in a smaller voice.

"I can't say for certain," Lord Nigel said reluctantly. "He's a hard one to predict."

"Perhaps he will have thrown a fit and gone home," she said hopefully.

"That's one possibility," Lord Nigel agreed.

They all bundled up on the sleigh next to Sarah, careful not to jostle her. The ride home would be painful enough.

"I'll ride ahead for the doctor and send him over," Lord Nigel offered. "Although ten to one, it's a simple sprain and he won't thank me for the trouble!"

With a salute of his gloved fingers to the brim of his hat, Lord Nigel swung off on his horse. They set off after him at a spanking pace.

"Sorry, Sarah, but we'd best make a dash for it," Albie said. "The boys at the stable said that the water from the creek is rising. I can't imagine how you tried to walk across the lake. Such folly, with the wind rising and temperatures falling! You're lucky it was only a sprain and not a dunking!"

Sarah bit her lip and did not reply.

Lord Nigel was no longer in view. They had come to the entrance and zipped out, following the path set by so many others, the path that would wind around the bend and connect with the village main street, over the bridge of the creek and back to the house.

Tempest gripped her hands in her lap, wondering if Saintignon was waiting for her, pacing around, yelling at all the servants in sight. Or maybe he had given up and gone home. That surely would have been the reasonable course of action, after the servants had informed him she had left for the Fair.

Something at that moment made her swing her head back and look towards the entrance. And then she saw the unmistakable tall figure of Dominic Saintignon, silhouetted against the entrance signpost.


	19. Chapter 19

"Stop!" she cried out. "Wait, I must go back!"

Albie jerked on the reins in surprise. The sleigh slid to a shuddering halt. Sarah yelped in pain and the lines of her neck stood out as her ankle was jostled in its makeshift bedding.

Tempest tumbled out of the sleigh, mumbling apologies. "Please, I must speak with someone at once…" she explained haltingly.

"But, Tempest, I don't think Sarah should stay out in the cold," Sophie said uncertainly, looking at her sister.

Tempest bit her lip. "Yes, you must take her home immediately and put her in warm clothes. And for heaven's sake, give her something warm to drink at once! Albie, I'll manage to find a ride with one of the locals. Please, I must speak with someone! It's very important-possibly a matter of life or death," she said, hoping that she was not predicting her own future. Again she damned Saintignon in her head. What a mess of a situation! She would have to beg a lift back to the Kadenbury estate, or possibly walk back on her own before the sky turned fully dark.

The sleigh continued on its way, with Sophie glancing back towards her and waving. Albie shouted that he would come back for her. Tempest stamped through the melting ice and made her way back towards the entrance of the Fair.

"Saintignon!" she cried, as soon as she thought he could hear her.

His head snapped up as soon as he heard her voice. His eyes were blazing, and he looked madder than she had thought possible. She stopped before she could reach him.

"I'm sorry!" she yelled quickly and loudly. "I had no idea you were inviting me to the Fair. The band-that day-I couldn't hear a word you said. I…" She looked closely at him, garbed in his blacks and hatless, of all things. "Have-have you been here all this time?"

"Of course I haven't!" he huffed in a rage. "I was up at the manor, but you weren't ready! Or so the servants said. I couldn't make head or tail out of anything that bunch of useless people were saying. All ten of them, and between them not a full brain that functioned! Then Mrs. Kadenbury came back and said you had all gone out! After I had waited for a full two hours!"

"You...waited...two hours at the house?" Tempest repeated incredulously.

"Of course I did, you stupid woman! How should I know what you were doing? For all I knew, you were busy getting ready, and the lot of you females take half a day to put on a hat! You should be ready by the time I get there, not after!" he ended on a roar.

"But I had already gone out," she murmured.

"Yes! I gathered that! A full two hours later!" Saintignon seemed almost incandescent with rage. "I came here to look for you and couldn't find you anywhere. I asked around, and someone said that Albert Kadenbury hadn't come today and to not bother looking for him. Naturally, I decided to wait by the entrance to see if I could catch you as you came in...if only to throttle you!"

He looked so intimidating in his anger that Tempest did not wonder that one of the locals had lied to protect Albie. She was sure that whoever had said that was a brave soul who thought he was saving Albie from a certain pounding.

"I am sorry," she said, his fulminating anger conversely calming her anxiety. At least, she thought, he was speaking. It was his quiet, black anger that was the more frightening. "Truly. Please, let me make it up to you."

"How?" he growled.

"I...you must be freezing. Let me treat you to a cup of hot cocoa. I think-I think that stall has not yet closed."

"You can do much better than that!" he roared, and grabbed ahold of her wrist, yanking her after him.

"What-what are you doing?" she cried in alarm, stumbling after him.

"Shut up," he ground out. "After the day I've had, I won't be satisfied with a measly cup of stale cocoa."

"What does that mean?" Tempest looked uneasily at him, all the while trying to free her hand.

"That means-dammitall, stop trying to twist away!-that I want a damned hot tea, and nothing here is going to satisfy me, so you will just have to accompany me to the nearest inn after all the trouble you've put me through today!"

Since it was a much less infernal idea than what had been racing through her mind, she went with him to the stables and was relieved to see that he had driven a curricle that day. Cold as it was, an open carriage at least offered some semblance of propriety. She got in uneasily and stared outside. The sun, having been weak at best all day, had retreated permanently behind dark clouds. Furthermore, it was now almost five.

"I'm afraid this isn't proper at all," she muttered beside him at one point to be ordered to shut up.

Tempest noted with relief that they were headed for the Phoenix and the Hound, wondering if he expected her to pay for his meal, and then wondering if she carried enough notes with her in her reticule.

She really started to worry, after he leaped down from the curricle, tossed a coin at an ostler halfway across the yard with a motion that indicated years of practice, and roared for the innkeep, all the while hauling her behind him with a grasp like iron.

"Everything on the menu," he ordered. "On the double! And two bottles of your finest wine. No, make that a bottle of whisky, and a bottle of your finest wine."

"We only have brandy and ale here," the innkeeper's wife said complacently.

Saintignon grunted. "And us only out of war with France. Fine, a bottle of brandy. Do you make negus?"

"Yes, milord."

"A bowl of negus for the lady. Quickly! She looks half-frozen."

The innkeeper's wife glanced at Tempest, then vanished to the kitchen. What Tempest was was frozen, not with cold, but with trepidation. Trepidation that this all would be so expensive she would thereafter be in debt.

"I'm...not that hungry," she said meekly when they were alone. And alone they were. The large hall was empty of visitors who were undoubtedly sampling free wares at the Fair. Tempest was surprised that the innkeeper had not closed down the kitchen for the day.

"You'll eat," he said. "What, are you even now worrying about your reputation? Whilst I've been freezing to my death waiting for your arrival?"

Sadly, Tempest found that debt was a bigger worry than ruination or even his company. "I'm afraid I haven't brought much money with me. But if you will tell me how much I owe later, I shall send it over to the manor next day," she said.

Saintignon glared at her under dark brows. "Are your wits gone begging, woman? Naturally I do not expect you to pay!"

"I offered to treat you," she said lamely.

"Your service to me shall be your company during this dammed meal, should it ever arrive," he said. "Is that understood? Good God, never have I met a more contentious female!"

Tempest wanted to demand why he was even bothering to eat with such contentious company, when the food arrived, plate after plate of delicious, steaming food. She had dined at the inn one luncheon with the girls, but they had not ordered such a monstrosity of dishes. She found that she was starving, and she also began to eat liberally.

"I see that food has the ability to well and truly shut that mouth of yours," he said at one point with a smirk.

His comment should have angered her to no end, but he was smiling-or smirking-when he said it, and the food was delicious. The exercise she received that day had put her in the mood for home-cooked food. There was stewed fish with pickled vegetables, salted pork bouille soup, slices of moist, succulent sweetbread, roasted filleted beef with steaming hot potatoes with button mushrooms, venison pie, and wild fowl in white sauce among among at least one jelly and two pastries.

The negus-a drink made normally of port, hot lemon-water, sugar, and nutmeg-had brandy substituted, but Tempest found that the unusually sweet drink delicious and fortifying. It must be true, she mused, that to break bread with the devil was to consort with him. For she had never found herself so well-disposed with Saintignon.

A moment later, she realized he had hardly eaten of anything on the table and had been steadily drinking his brandy. The landlady came out to inquire after their repast and worriedly asked if the food was not to their looking.

"I have never had better food at an inn, Mrs. Bennett," said Tempest.

Saintignon merely grunted, looking ill-tempered and eyes starting to turn bloodshot. Most assuredly from the drink, Tempest thought.

It was still a large meal on the table when Saintignon called for the bill, and Tempest realized that he wasn't about to eat.

"You have had nothing to eat," she said. "What of your desire for a hot meal?"

His brows were black lines across his face. "This swill is hardly to my liking," he growled, pushing away from the table.

Tempest was incredulous. What an absolute boor this man truly was! To order a meal fit for a family of ten, to run the landlady off her feet, and then to damn the entire meal to the rubbish heap - it was incivility at its uttermost, and wasteful at that.

"We are not leaving the food to be wasted," she said firmly. "Most of the dishes were not even touched! Surely the Ferrises have tenants that can benefit from this bounty!"

And even as Saintignon looked even darker than, Tempest requested the landlady pack everything up into hampers and set in the carriage.

"Well, Miss Makepeace," Saintignon said sarcastically, rising with a lurch from an armchair. "May we finally leave? The hour grows late, as I believe you mentioned much earlier."

Tempest lifted her chin. "Yes, thank you," she said, and marched from the inn into the courtyard on her own without waiting for him.

He was slower to appear than she had expected, and moving strangely on his feet. She wondered with some trepidation if he was foxed from drink and whether it was safe to even entrust him with the handling of a team on icy roads.

When he stopped beside the curricle next to her, she looked at him with some concern.

"You… Are you quite well?" she asked.

He placed his gloved hand over hers on the rail and grinned at her. It was a feral grin and she snatched her hand back almost immediately.

"What, are you worried for me?" he asked, his tone so mocking that she turned away from him and faced straight ahead.

"Please get in so I can return to the Kadenburies," she said stiffly.

He drove slowly, unlike their trip from the Fair. It was a long and silent ride through the town, past the turnoff to the Ferris manor and several outlying fields. The ride was unbroken by either of them, and the only sound through the still night was the clip-clop of the horses' hooves.

It was the longest ride Tempest had ever endured. She wondered why he did not attempt to converse, as he had been the one to request their meeting. But it would soon be over. A sideways glance showed that his lips were set and his head uncharacteristically bowed. Tempest lifted her head. She refused to cajole him out of his sulks.

However, as they approached the bridge, she saw that the ice had melted and that cold water from the creek had flooded the banks, sweeping over the bridge in a shallow flow.

Tempest glanced at Saintignon, who cursed under his breath and urged his team forward. But when they had reached the edge of the water, he pulled them to a stop and made to jump from the curricle.

"I shall need to lead them across," he said. "Hold hard."

She nodded tightly, wishing there was something she could do instead of sitting high in this comfortable seat. The water swirled around in front of them, and she shivered. Even the heat from the hot brick at her feet did nothing to dispel the chill of the air. The sun had long set beyond the horizon, and even though a thaw had set in, it was still unbearably cold.

Tempest watched as Saintignon jumped from the curricle and stumbled. Thoughts raced across her head. He would need to cross this bridge again once he had left her at the Kadenburies. Where was his tiger? Surely he had a tiger to help him. And of course it was cold with an open carriage like the curricle, which he had driven today to escort her: he could not escort an unmarried woman in a closed carriage.

She stiffened her spine. There was no need to sympathize with this man, who beat down servants with brutal anger, who did far worse to random strangers for thwarting his will. There was no reason to feel softness towards this man for leading his team through icy cold water to take her home. And certainly, should he ruin his fine boots, he could order a dozen more when he returned!

But, as she watched, he lurched and it seemed to her horrified eyes that the horses were dragging him-and the carriage-into the water.

"Saintignon!" she yelled in alarm, certain that he was about to slip or be pulled under the wheels. What was happening to the man? She had been certain that his only redeeming quality had been his athletic prowess, but even now, she was being proved wrong!

He was back on dry ground when Tempest also jumped from the carriage and went to his side. "Saintignon, are you foxed?" she demanded, and jerked the reins from his listless hands.

It was then that she realized he had, either unwittingly or in a foxed stupor, neglected to put on his gloves. She touched his hand, and even through her gloves, she realized that he was burning up.


	20. Chapter 20

"You're burning up," Tempest said stupidly.

Now that she looked at him with new eyes, she saw that his eyes were bleary and half-closed, and that despite the chill of the night air, there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Saintignon, you're ill," she said, and grabbed him before he fell heavily against her.

Her first reaction was to push him off, and he only just caught the edge of the carriage in time to prevent from falling to the ground.

"You-you would push a sick man," he groaned out.

"Why did you come out today in this condition?" she demanded.

"You daft woman! I'm in this state from waiting around for you all day!" He looked angrily at her, but his half-cast eyes took away much of their menace. It was difficult to fear a man who was huddled against the side of the carriage. "And you would push an ailing man. _You_ have brought this on me."

Somehow, Tempest managed to help him back into his seat. He groaned and shivered, complaining the entire time.

"You have the strength of an ox," he said, shivering. "Clearly the sign of a commoner."

She thought madly of the night she took ill in London because his actions had set crazed men on her and Albie like hounds after a fox. It surely served him right to take ill and suffer from consumption of the lungs. It would serve him well if she toppled him off the carriage right now!

Only strict morals and religious upbringing pacified her actions, and she thought of the doctor, who, if Lord Nigel had done his job, was even now at the Kadenburies.

"Don't glare...like that," he said, giving a pitiful cough. "I'm so cold. Perhaps...we should sit closer," he suggested.

Tempest ignored him. "We must go over the bridge," she said. "The doctor-"

Saintignon shook his head, but the action was at once both frenzied and slow. "No! We-can't make it. The current-too strong. The horses-tethered-slip off…" And then as Tempest watched, he gave a convulsive shiver and his head rolled onto her shoulder.

At first, Tempest gave him an irritated push, but when his head rolled the other direction, she realized that he was in very bad state indeed. She gazed at him for a moment, struck with the enormity of her situation.

In the dark. In the cold. Atop a strange conveyance. In a strange town.

Her heart pounded as each of the dire facts raced through her mind.

Saintignon as her sole companion now seemed to be the least of her concerns, as far as his hostility towards her went. She tucked the hot brick behind Saintignon's booted heels, her own feet immediately protesting at the loss of even this feeble warmth. She tucked the thick fur blanket over the both of them and she unwound the scarf from around her neck and framed his face liberally with it, dabbing at the glistening sweat on his brow as she did so. He had slumped off to one side, mumbling incoherently.

Even if the doctor was on the other side of the creek, she told herself, she would never be able to lead the horses across the flooded bridge. She would need to drive them back into town. Town was where the inn was. In town, there would be an apothecary, who could be roused from his bed, or fetched from the Fair. In town, there would be other people to help.

With that noble thought in mind, Tempest set to turning the team of horses around in the narrow lane. It was far more difficult than she had imagined, and it was through much yelling and conjecturing and after a time that she had managed to accomplish this, and she had broken into a sweat before they were facing the right direction.

They had not even made the turnoff when Tempest realized that driving all the way back into town was a faint dream. The night was dark, the lane was narrow and framed with deep ditches. She was not familiar with driving, much less along this stretch of road, which was unpaved and liberally spotted with jarring holes and pits. Every time the curricle jostled over a particularly bad spot, she winced as she thought of the two wheels that were all that supported her and an unconscious Saintignon.

It did not bear thinking if they were to overturn or break a wheel. She was not an accomplished horsewoman. In fact, the only thing she had ever driven was the horsecart back home, led by Bessie, who was old, broad, and placid, and who wouldn't overturn a horsecart as much as she would refuse to budge another step.

But here she had two very tempestuous horses who leaned on their traces and sensed that someone else was handling them instead of their usual owner, a sentiment that resulted in their jerking their heads and running into each other in a clear attempt at rebellion.

She would go to the Ferris manor, Tempest decided. _After all, even if Lord Nigel is not there, Lord Marchmont surely is._ A pang struck Tempest when she realized that Lord Rochefort was in Liverpool by now, he who was always such a source of comfort to her.

She wondered at the folly of Saintignon to wait for her all day without even a servant. It seemed highly uncharacteristic, but then, all his actions upon leaving London had been uncharacteristic of that strange man beside her.

 _But I cannot think of such things,_ she thought sternly. Driving this foreign vehicle would take all of her concentration.

It seemed to take forever before they made it to the turnoff. She had been so anxious that she would miss it that she tried to turn down every single opening she saw through straining eyes. Fortunately, she remembered in time that there was a signpost that marked that particular lane.

By the time she turned into the lane, Tempest's hands were shaking from gripping the reins so hard. Not only was she afraid they would slip into the ditch, she also had to keep an eye on Saintignon to make sure _he_ didn't fall out. Tempest kept having the horrible image of a wheel breaking and having to _walk_ to the Ferris manor to get help.

At last they drew up to the manor, which looked strangely dark and unwelcoming. Tempest realized with a start that most of the servants would have been given a day or half a day off at the Fair. Many would have taken the time to return home for a brief visit.

Tempest slipped down from the seat onto shaky legs and took a deep breath before running up the steps to hammer on the front door.

Nothing.

Tempest vigorously worked the door knocker.

Still there was nothing, but the eerie stillness of an empty home.

 _How_? her mind screamed. How in this day and age would three extremely decadent aristocrats not have a bevy of servants around to do their bidding, even when they were not at home?

"Lord Marchmont!" she yelled at the top of her lungs in desperation and helpless fury.

She hammered uselessly on the door for a good ten minutes more before she gave up the cause for lost and kicked the door in helpless fury.

The manor was completely empty.

Somehow Tempest made it back to that hated driver's seat, and heaved herself back up into the seat. It seemed further up than she had remembered. She could not imagine how she had managed to load a very tall, very broad, and very heavy Saintignon up into the seat in the first place.

It was fortunate, she told herself, that the sky had cleared and the moon had emerged from behind the clouds. The lamps that hung on brackets attached to the sides of the curricle had long since burnt out. The horses neighed in protest and stamped their feet in the cold.

Tempest cast her mind back to the day of the ball. There had been a small folly on one side of the manor on a rise. The conservatory lay to the back of the house. The stables were on the...left side of the house? She could not remember, and moreover, she had been let out at the front steps.

So she followed the paved drive and drove around twice before she saw a dark building that appeared to be the stables.

Again she jumped out. Again she knocked on the doors with no reply. But this time, she found that the stables were not locked and she pushed the doors open. It was much warmer inside, even without fires burning.

She regained her driver's seat, almost knocking her head on the retractable cover that had been pulled up over them for their evening ride. She somehow untied the two horses from the braces and led the two ungrateful equine beasts into the first stall she saw. They tried to nip at her as payment. She made fast work of settling them down and returned to Saintignon.

Too late, she realized she should have untied the horses _after_ finding a resting place for him. She gazed at him for a long time. He was formidably tall and heavy, and the temptation to leave him on the curricle seat was strong.

But she had seen a dining area to the right for stablehands, and what looked to be a small private room for the head groom. Conscience demanded she do what she could for him, as she had contributed in small part to his current state - however unjustified. She was yawning and too tired to explore further. After ascertaining that the small room had a cot and lighting a brace of candles to light the way, Tempest went back out to the curricle and managed to shake Saintignon to awareness.

With him groggy but conscious, Tempest got him down from the curricle and into the room and onto the cot before he rolled over and fell asleep immediately. She built up a fire in the bigger room opposite the groom's room and hoped that the heat would extend to Saintignon. Again, Tempest realized too late that it would have been better for Saintignon to be next to the fire, but he was unconscious now, and she had neither the energy nor the inclination to wake him or move him.

With the last of her energy, she fetched more blankets and heaped them atop Saintignon. The last thing she did before falling into an exhausted slumber on one of the hard chairs in the dining area was to curse the day she met Dominic Saintignon.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the fire went out.

Tempest awoke shivering from the cold, her neck stiff from bending over the table, and legs numb from her sitting position.

She was so exhausted and cold she could have cried. If anyone had appeared at that moment, she would have wept from relief.

But there was no one around.

Sleepily, she went into the groom's room, which was warm now and almost smokey from the fire. Saintignon was tossing and turning in the bed, and Tempest noted with a yawn that her cold hand was almost warmed on his hot brow.

His eyes flickered open and he gazed uncomprehendingly at her. "W-water," he rasped.

Moving as though she wore ten coats instead of her thin cloak, she fetched a tin cup from the simple wooden table and poured out a measure of liquid from a jug. She tasted it. It was watered down ale, ice-cold from sitting around the room. It would have to do.

She handed it to him, and he struggled to sit up. He drank the entire cup and held it out to her again.

"More."

Tempest poured more and gave it to him. He drank two more cups, all the while fastening shadowed eyes on her. He gave her the strange impression that he had been watching her for years, and would continue to do so.

"Tempest," he said, startling her.

He shouldn't be calling her by her Christian name, but she went over and sat beside him.

"What is it?" she asked, wondering if he was about to expire on her. She touched his forehead again.

He slowly gripped her wrist and brought her hand down and turned it over his grasp as though he had never seen a hand before in his life. She wondered if he even knew where he was.

"I think…" he said in a voice so slow her tired brain struggled to catch. He looked at her with eyes that were fevered and yet somehow lucid. "I…it is nothing."

He handed her the empty cup with his other hand and fell back down on the bed and was asleep in seconds, his hot hand still tightly gripped on hers.

After a few moments spent wrestling her hand free, Tempest debated pulling some blankets onto the floor and sleeping there, but finally settled for lying down on the cot next to Saintignon on top of the blankets.

The thin cot was so comfortable, even perched on the edge as she was, that Tempest gave up the idea of the floor completely. Drowsily, she thought of tipping Saintignon to the floor and taking the bed for herself, but that seemed to require more energy than she possessed, and so she stayed where she was.

Gradually, it seemed unfair that he had all the blankets. The night air was so cold that she sleepily reached over to cover herself with the edge of Saintignon's blankets and her back was hit with such a rush of heat from him that she shivered with delight.

Before she knew it, she had fallen fast asleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Tempest awoke in stages.

Light streamed through the open door, and voices-loud, rough, masculine voices-sounded.

At first, she didn't move, feeling drowsy with the kind of restful sleep the night after heavy exertion. She wondered vaguely why there were such loud men talking outside her window.

Then, she jerked awake with a start.

Tempest hurled the grimy blankets off her to find an arm looped around her middle. She flushed so red that she could have set the entire stables on fire, except she then suddenly realized that it was Saintignon next to her, and that his entire body was spooning hers, thus explaining the delicious heat. His leg was tangled in the skirt of her long cloak that she hadn't taken off the night before, and his face was buried in her neck.

She elbowed him off and leaped off the cot just as the voices grew closer.

"-where could he be?" a voice was saying. A different voice. A light, cultured voice. It was a voice that made Tempest freeze in her steps.

"He wasn't seen all day yesterday, but his curricle is in the stables. His horses, though, appear to be stabled together, and very unhappy with the treatment they received last night they are as well-" Lord Marchmont was saying only moments before he, Lord Nigel, two gentlemen that Tempest did not recognize, and two stablehands walked past the groom's room and stopped short at the sight of her.

"Well, Saint can't be too far off without his horses," came the light mocking tones of Lord Nigel.

"Miss Makepeace," Lord Marchmont said, rocking back on his heels in surprise. "What an interesting…" he drifted off as his eyes traveled past her rumpled appearance to rest on the cot and the unmistakable sleeping figure of Saintignon.

Tempest knew she wasn't helping herself when she stood, stock-still and unmoving, under the gaping eyes of the group of men.

It was the scandal of the century.

If Saintignon wasn't ruining her name one way, Tempest thought bitterly that he managed to do it another way.

Try as she might to explain her actions of the night before, of Saintignon's clear illness, of the creek overflowing, the flooded bridge, of the million and one reasons why she was caught the morning after standing next to the sleeping figure of Dominic Saintignon, Tempest knew that she was well and truly ruined, and she had done it to herself.

Unluckily for her, it seemed the entire county had known of her disappearance, as the Kadenburies had been worried about her disappearance and had sent word back to the Fair. Almost everyone had been set to search for her, nobody at the Fair having seen her after her leaving with the Kadenburies.

It was after a damning interview with the unsuspecting landlord and landlady of the inn that the situation turned less dire and decidedly more salacious. For now it was reported that Tempest Makepeace had last been seen in the company of Dominic Saintignon, and riding off in a curricle with him. Alone, unchaperoned, and at night.

All signs pointed to an elopement.

"The light's too poor for an elopement," Lord Marchmont had remarked when he could be found. "Not to mention the road conditions are decidedly inconducive to a successful elopement."

"Besides which," drawled Lord Nigel. "There's no bloody chance in hell that our Saint is eloping with _anyone._ "

"There is no need for an elopement with Saintignon," Lord Marchmont continued. "Why should any father disapprove of him?"

"She's ruined!" was Sarah's aghast and titillated cry.

"She can't be with him," protested Albie.

Everyone chimed in with their theories, but nobody had thought to check the stables of the Ferris manor until the next morning.

Lord Marchmont had been entertained by a lovely widow of dubious reputation in town and had not returned to the manor at all. Lord Nigel had been obliged by the flooded creek to stay at the Kadenburies for the night. The doctor stayed there also. The number of servants at the Ferris manor had been reduced after the departure of Lady Susanna, and the rest was given a full day off on account of the Fair, unbeknownst to Saintignon.

The head groom had taken an extended leave three days ago and left the running of the stables to Jim Groom, who helped out at the Fair and thus did not returned to the manor until the early hours, during which he immediately reported the curious stabling of Saintignon's team to milords Marchmont and Nigel.

Marchmont and Nigel had returned that morning and was even then with the squire and local solicitor when Jim Groom brought news of Saintignon's horses. The group then descended en masse on the stables, the squire being desirous of seeing the Four Horsemen's equipage.

It was a curious and improvident turn of events that led to Tempest's current situation.

"Oh, the deuce," groaned Marchmont, and immediately removed the squire and

the solicitor from the premises.

The two stablehands with Jim Groom gawked and leered and slinked off together.

Lord Nigel remained, leaning against the doorway and smirking.

"Was this the urgent appointment for which you left Kadenbury's sleigh last night?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "Far be it from me to judge…"

"No, as you very well know!" Tempest exploded. "He...we ended up here by accident! Why was there no one at the main house? Saintignon nearly crashed the team yesterday. He's suffering from fever!"

It was a very garbled stream of sentences, but Lord Nigel frowned at the last sentence and moved forward to touch Saintignon's forehead.

"He's all right now," he said, looking at Tempest with a look that made her want to kick him and sink into the floor simultaneously.

Tempest reached forward to feel Saintignon's face for herself. His fever had receded.

"How could it be…?" she asked, half to herself. "He was almost delirious last night! He stumbled and almost fell into the creek. I had to drive that unwieldy thing myself yesterday! At night! In the dark, all along the lane! He almost fell out! I-I had to drag him in here, stable the horses myself! I've never stabled a horse in my life!"

"Saintignon…stumbled?" Lord Nigel said in disbelief.

"I tell it true, he was ill immediately after dining at the inn and I was afraid that he would run us into a ditch."

"I suppose if he had been ill, that would have been the only reason for him to stumble and drive poorly. Saint drives to an inch, you know. This tale won't stand up at all, and if it's not you, Miss Makepeace, trying to compromise him, then Saint is the one who has been making improper advances."

She was speechless with helplessness and fury, not to mention sleepiness.

Lord Nigel surveyed her and sighed. "Well, I believe you, but thousands wouldn't."

"What can I do?" she asked in desperation.

"You've been well and truly compromised," he said grimly. "And I can't say that Saintignon will do the honorable thing. In fact, he probably _won't_. Many's the lass who's tried it and failed-"

"I don't want him to do the honorable thing by me!" she cried. "He's brought me nothing but misery from the moment I laid eyes on him! But now, for an act of mercy I rendered him, I'll have lost my reputation as well!"

Lord Nigel didn't respond, but he favored her by silently and compassionately taking her back to the Kadenburies and explaining in several short sentences that Saintignon had been taken ill and that Tempest had stayed to care for him.

"I didn't!" Tempest interrupted. "I didn't want to care for him at all! Only-only I had no way of returning, don't you see? The creek… His fever..." Tempest babbled desperately.

Lord Nigel said grimly that Saintignon had not awoken from his fevered or foxed sleep, and that Tempest was well and truly caught in a dilemma. Tempest was so distraught that she didn't know where to look.

Mrs. Kadenbury saw immediately and rushed forward to wrap arms around her. "My poor dear, what a night you've had. Sophie dear, please help Tempest to her room and ask the servants to bring her a hot bath. She's gone through a horror of an evening."

As Tempest let herself be taken away, she was aware of hushed voices discussing her rumpled state.

"I believe you, Tempest," Sophie said in a small voice once they were ensconced in her room. "Only…this is very serious, is it not? They have been discussing this ever so long, and all yesterday as well."

"Yes," Tempest replied bitterly, wishing she could sink into the tub of water, let the water cover her head, and never come out.

"Will it…will it be all right?" Sophie asked worriedly.

"I hate that man!" Tempest finally said through gritted teeth. "I hate that man so much!" she shouted and burst into tears.

It was the first time she had cried since she was fifteen and the family pet died.


	22. Chapter 22

The news spread throughout the country like wildfire. Dominic Saintignon had been caught in the parson's trap, and by a lady of no particular family at that. It was scandalous; it was delicious. Lord Nigel spoke truly when he said that many a miss had tried, but never had one succeeded: after all, Saintignon's temper was infamous, and his reputation would undoubtedly recover from the blow.

Furthermore, nobody had been so careless as to be caught with the evidence of spending a night with Saintignon.

It mattered not that both had been fully clothed, and that Saintignon bore traces of a ravaged night: his boots were irreparably stained, and his horses uncommonly ill-cared for. Everyone knew that not even an amorous aristocrat would neglect his high-steppers.

Tempest Makepeace was the unforgivable chit who had been so bold as to do what no other miss had dared tried, and nobody was to forgive her for it.

She was quickly known as the lady who tried to compromise Dominic Saintignon. She was utterly and completely ruined.

"I shall return to Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble," she announced dully to the Kadenburies at breakfast. "I am so sorry to have brought this upon you, more sorry than you will ever know."

"We believe you, dearest," said Mrs. Kadenbury, "but…"

Mrs. Kadenbury trailed off, but Tempest knew her quandary. With two young daughters not yet married, she could not afford any scandal attached to their name. As it was now, they were unsuspecting victims of the shameless hussy that was Tempest Makepeace, but should they harbor her for much longer, they would become her willing accomplices.

"Tempest," Albie said in a forceful voice, standing abruptly from the table. " _I_ shall marry you. Please do me the very great honor-"

"Oh, do sit down, Albie," his mother said sharply. She might be fond of Tempest; she might even believe the poor lass had been beleaguered by an unfortunate turn off events the night before, but she saw that her poor son was smitten with her, and that the young chit did not return the sentiment. She saw further that if he were to wed Tempest now, the scandal would be forever attached to their name and to that of her daughters.

Albie awkwardly sat back down.

Tempest curtsied to them all before going to her room. She gazed around the room fondly, thinking that it had been a happy few weeks she had spent here, free from the strictures of London and foibles of Lady Islington, free from the pressures exerted by her parents. It was a happy time and she would be forever grateful for Albie for inviting her here.

She sat down at her desk, and after some deliberation, she penned a letter to Lady Islington, informing that lady of her intent to return to Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble and thanking her for her efforts and kindness. Then she began to pack.

It took no time at all before she was ready to leave. Mr. Kadenbury was absent as usual, but Mrs. Kadenbury and an unusually silent Sarah waved her off from the house as Albie and Sophie accompanied her to the station. Tempest was to buy a ticket for the cheapest fare and ride the stage north.

The sun was out and the day had seen an unprecedented and sudden increase in temperature. Albie had informed Tempest that they would take another longer and very circuitous route throughout a neighbor's fields in order to bypass the flooded bridge. She thought dully that even had she known of the route, she would not have been able to manage that late at night. No, her folly had lain in going to meet Saintignon. Even knowing of his ire and having to face it was a far less threat than ruination. Or was it? She could not tell anymore. Ruination at his hands or by society because of him - it was all one and the same.

"How could Mama not let you stay?" burst out Sophie when they were clattering down the lane.

"Don't blame her, Sophie," Tempest said, forcing out a smile. "Your mother has shown me every kindness, but I really must leave." Another thought had crossed her mind, chiefly that she now had so little money that she needed to ask Albie to loan it to her.

Her cheeks reddened. Oh, it was disheartening to be poor, she thought. The problem lay in her poverty, for, had she been wealthy, she wouldn't have thought anything of letting him pay for her and never returning it, as any lady of society would carelessly do. But because she could not afford it, she wasn't able to think of anything but the charity of it.

But without even remarking on it, Albie left the carriage with his tiger, whom he sent up ahead to procure a ticket. Albie presented the ticket to Tempest after the porters had helped lift down her portmanteau.

"Tempest, I am sorry that your stay with us has been cut short by this turn events," he said gruffly, pressing the ticket on her.

She took it before she knew what it was.

"I hope this has not ruined your impression of Lowesbrough," he said. "I… have always had…fond memories of you and my time in Upper Cheltendon and only wish that…" He glanced around at Sophie, who was listening avidly, and blushed wildly.

"I understand," Tempest said. "You are also a very dear friend to me, Albie, you and your family. This trip, albeit its disastrous ending, was simply lovely. Please…I only hope you can find it in your heart to stay in touch."

She almost cried again when she boarded the stagecoach. Albie had managed to buy an inside seat for her, and she sat in the left, front-facing seat, clutching her reticule in her lap. The hot bath from yesterday was only a memory. It was not as cold as the previous week, but a chill still hung in the air, and prevented from moving about made Tempest even colder. She wished she has enough pin money to rent a blanket and a hot brick for her feet, but she would need all of the rest of her money to last through the trip back home.

The other passengers boarded the stagecoach. The first, a woman with a pinched face and scraped back hair of a spinster took the seat opposite her. A rotund man took the seat next to the spinster along with his son, who took the window seat facing the back. A young couple took the seats next to Tempest, chattering and cooing to each other and earning sour looks from the spinster.

Tempest avoided the eyes of the other passengers and being drawn into conversation. She affected to fall asleep when the rotund man smiled all around and introduced himself as a farmer.

"Too good for the likes of us," she heard the spinster opposite her sniff loudly and introduce herself as "Matilda Stearns, of the Stearns of Northbridge." Everyone else hummed politely, although no one has ever heard of Northbridge, much less the Stearns of Northbridge.

Before too long, the events of the past few days caught up on Tempest, and she really did fall asleep.

She slept through the first part of the journey and woke when they rumbled to a stop at a posting inn and the coachman roared, "Five minutes!" before stamping into the taproom.

Tempest refreshed herself and thanked her stars that she didn't yet feel hungry. The few coins inside her purse had been counted so many times that they were nearly burnished by her fingers. They would have to last her through the entire journey, the night spent at an inn along the way, and breakfast tomorrow. She would have to hold out as long as possible. She would further have to pray for good weather and an uninterrupted journey.

But the sleep had rejuvenated her considerably and she smiled shyly at the other passengers when she rejoined them.

The rotund farmer, Bernard Sanders, and his son, Samuel, beamed at her. The couple went by the name of Louise and John Holden. They spent the next few minutes exchanging pleasantries and discussing the chill of the previous week and the devastation of the lowland flooding.

The conversation flowed so easily, even with the occasional sharp contribution from Matilda Stearns, that at first none of them marked what was happening outside.

Then, the sound of hoofbeats drew ever closer; rapid, pounding hoofbeats.

"Lord above!" said Bernie Sanders, grabbing ahold of his shovel hat. "What's amiss?"

"Riders, Papa!" Samuel said, excitedly. He peered out of the window. "Do you think they're highwaymen?"

Louise Holden gave a frightened shriek, and surprisingly, Matilda Stearns said bracingly, "Not along this stretch of the road. They're more likely to target mailcoaches in any event."

But all of them peered outside the window. The coachman, clearly fearing the same thing, whipped the horses to a faster pace.

Then, "Hold hard!" resounded from the outside.

Mrs. Holden squealed again and huddled against her husband. Tempest and Matilda exchanged grim looks.

The guard let a resounding boom with his blunderbuss.

"Stand and deliver, damn you! Stand and deliver!" shouted one of the riders, his voice furious.

Ahead of them was a steep rise. The coach began to slow and the riders drew ahead of the carriage.

"We'll have to stop," shouted the coachman and the occupants fell silent. Tempest thought of the few coins in her purse and could have wept. She wished she had spent a few coins back at the last stop and bought a hot lemonade. Now her few meager coins would go to a ruffian in exchange for her life.

They ground to a stop. Hoofbeats sounded all around them.

"There sounds to be twenty of the dastards!" scowled Mr. Holden.

They sat stock still, hearing jeers from the outside passengers.

"Wot yer want, me nibs?" she heard one of the outside passengers shout.

"What's a fine gentleman like yourself doing holding up common folk?" another voice whined.

And then the door of the coach opened.

Tempest gaped at the figure framed in the doorway.

"I bid you good even, Miss Makepeace," said a grinning Lord Marchmont.


	23. Chapter 23

"Always wanted to do that," crowed Lord Nigel, dismounting next to Lord Marchmont to appear before the passengers.

"What's going on here, my lords?" demanded the coachman. "This is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed!"

"Just a moment of your time, my fine man," Lord Nigel said, and the audible sounds of coins exchanging hands could be heard. Jeers and complaints from the outside passengers rose in the air.

"Do those men have to hold guns on us?" they heard the guard ask plaintively, and Lord Nigel murmur something in response and then shouted to the other men on horseback.

Tempest stared in bemusement all around her. "Have you-have you followed me here?" she asked Lord Marchmont.

"Yes, we've been hot on the trail of this coach. Please, Miss Makepeace, can you step down from the coach?"

"No!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

"Miss Makepeace, even now Saint is behind us. Please, I do entreat you, step down from the coach and we shall explain everything."

"Here now," bluffed Bernie Sanders. "Seems to me the lady don't wish to go with the likes of you!"

"Stay out of this," ordered a hard-faced Lord Marchmont Tempest had never seen before.

It jolted her into awareness. "What does he want with me? Revenge?" she asked.

"I wouldn't say revenge exactly," Lord Marchmont said carefully.

"Let me go, Lord Marchmont," Tempest said in an even voice. "This has nothing to do with you."

Lord Marchmont gave a charming grin. "My dear Miss Makepeace, it would be worth more than my life is worth were I to let you go before Saintignon has had his say."

"Did no one tell him that I tried to save his life? Does he think I set out to…to _entrap_ him? Is he set on another mad scheme?" It was a nightmare, an unending nightmare. The feverish and weak Saintignon of the night before was apparently no more; an angry Saintignon bent on vengeance had sent his friends to chase her down! She wanted to tear out her hair.

"Trap him?" Matilda Stearns repeated, looking sharply at them.

"Well, March?" Lord Nigel said, repeating beside Lord Marchmont.

"I'm not stepping down," Tempest said, turning her head away to stare straight ahead.

"And nor should you," said Matilda stoutly. "Go away and leave this helpless woman alone."

"Helpless?" snorted Lord Nigel. "She's brought down our friend single-handedly."

The other members of the coach watched them avidly, nobody clammering to leave anymore. This was better than watching Haymarket theater. This was _live_ theater.

"Lord Marchmont," Tempest said, looking straight into that man's eyes. "Do you swear to me, on your honor, that Saintignon will do nothing further to...harm me?"

Lord Marchmont considered her for a moment and nodded. "I swear it. He shall not have his way if it is not your will."

Lord Nigel smirked. "Although I doubt anyone can say nay to Saintignon."

"Who is this Saintignon they keep mentioning?" asked Bernie Sanders.

"He's _the_ Saintignon, Papa, don't you know? He's one of the Four Horsemen, the ones who rule the Four-in-Hand club, the heir of Duke d'Auvergne-Talleyrand. He's the Marquis Talleyrand!"

"Coming here?" gaped Bernie Sanders.

Mr. and Mrs. Holden gazed at them with enraptured eyes, face moving to whomever was speaking, holding clasped hands between them.

"And you, you must be the baron Lord Ashton Marchmont," Samuel said, eyes wide.

"Guilty," said Lord Marchmont with a charming smile.

"And _you're_ Lord Nigel, the younger son of the Duke of Sare. You won that race down to Brighton!"

"You are singularly well-informed," drawled Lord Nigel and raised his eyebrows at Lord Marchmont. "If we could move this along?"

Lord Marchmont held out his hand to Tempest. "If you do not wish to hear whatever Saintignon has to say, only say the word, and I shall have you on the next coach. But you may want to hear his words to you."

Tempest considered his words, then nodded and rose from her seat. "If you are lying to me, Lord Marchmont," she said wrathfully to cover up her fear, "then I shall make you very sorry indeed!"

"Wait!" Matilda Stearns said, putting a hand on Tempest's arm. "You do not need to go with them if you do not wish it!"

"Madam, stay out of this affair," said Lord Nigel.

"It is _my_ affair when the actions of a few bored and useless men choose to interrupt my journey," Matilda snapped back. "Do you truly wish to go with them?" she asked again.

Tempest gazed at Matilda for a second, and it was apparently a very telling second.

"I am coming along with you, Miss Makepeace, if you do not object," Matilda Stearns said, standing up.

"Wait a second," protested Lord Nigel.

Tempest nodded. "Thank you, Miss Stearns. If it would not inconvenience you, your presence would be a great comfort to me."

The two of them alighted from the carriage and had their baggage handed down to them from the back.

"What will happen now?" Matilda asked in Tempest's stead.

Lord Marchmont eyed the coach, which stood unmoving by the side of the road. Ten pairs of eyes were turned in their direction. The coachman, his guard, and all the occupants had no intention of leaving until they saw the drama out to its end. Already, the outside passengers were taking bets what would happen to the young chit named Miss Makepeace.

"Nothing will be happening," said Lord Nigel in a bored tone. "Saintignon found out early this morning that he and Miss Makepeace were found in a compromising situation and that the whole of the town, if not the county knows of it, thanks to the Fair. Upon rising from his sickbed, he also found out that she had skipped town. Ergo, he sent us after her and even now, he is following fast on our tracks in a carriage in order to speak with Miss Makepeace privately."

"I...see," Tempest said, but she did not see at all. "What does he mean to do, Lord Marchmont?" she asked.

Instead of replying, Lord Marchmont said, "Do you know, Nigel, that I have never seen Saint this worked up over a girl? Even back in London, all we would have from him was Tempest Makepeace this and Tempest Makepeace that."

"That is because he was set on ruining me, and has now succeeded!" Tempest said, the mere memory of London drawing her ire.

"And then when she left London, what must he have us do but traipse up into the wilds of Lowesbrough, a township before which I had never heard? And at every step, what must we bear at every step but to hear about his next plans for Tempest Makepeace?"

Matilda Stearns blinked and looked questioningly at Tempest. At the same time, Tempest clenched her fists and said, "If he means to have a go at me, I'll...I'll plant him a facer!" she said crudely.

"I don't think that such is the intention of this man..." began Matilda.

Lord Marchmont quirked his lips and nodded to Matilda. "Yes, you are quick on the mark, madam: what we have here are two fools who are completely blind to the facts before them. Saintignon is, I believe, still laboring under the illusion he is trying to 'punish' Miss Makepeace. And Miss Makepeace," Lord Marchmont tilted his head in her direction, "has clearly no idea that little boys like to taunt and pull the pigtails of the girls they like."

"Like?" Tempest said. "I doubt that very much!"

Lord Nigel rolled his eyes and tapped his whip against his thigh. "Yes, a pity Saintignon never was in the petticoat line. This whole courtship would have been far less painful to watch. Even Rochefort was never half this gauche."

They continued to talk in this vein while Tempest's thoughts whirled around her. _Like_ her. _Courtship_. They threw around the words as though they applied to Tempest and the dreaded Saintignon. How could they apply in her situation? He had never tried to engage her in conversation. His method of conversing consisted of insulting her or mauling her. His way of getting her attention comprised of setting ruffians on her or kidnapping her. In short, there was never a more loverly demeanor than that of Saintignon.

"Yes, but I fear Miss Makepeace's reactions weren't much more adult," Lord Nigel said. "She's been quite violent to him as well. Hitting him, kicking him, insulting him at every turn...to anyone else, it would have been more than enough to send the man packing."

"But our Saintignon considers all this quite a lark and indicative of her pining after him," said Lord Marchmont with a laugh.

"He's convinced that she's only playing missish in order to rouse his ardor and gloats over it at every turn," Lord Nigel said.

"A strange pair," remarked Matilda. "But I have all this on your say-so, my lords, and forgive me, but I do not know you from Adam. Therefore, I shall withhold judgment until I meet this Saintignon for myself and judge whether Miss Makepeace is safe with him."

"Oh, she's safe enough. He's been a different man since setting eyes on Miss Makepeace," said Lord Marchmont equably.

"Yes, his man of affairs has confided that he's never had fewer books aimed at him before," said Lord Nigel.

"He's thrown fewer missiles in general."

"And he's...smiling...these days."

"Positively a ray of sunshine."

"Besotted."

"If he were a young girl, he would be drawing hearts and flowers and initials everywhere."

"I'm certain he's written a few _Tempest Saintignon_ s on chalkboards since."

The two men laughed at their absent friend while Matilda looked bemused and Tempest paced. The outside passengers had climbed down from the carriage and were sitting by the road to watch. A few of them were bored and had begun to bet on the progress of ants crawling across the ground.

It was nearly half an hour before Saintignon arrived. Tempest was prevented from boarding the coach because the coachman and the guard still had an ongoing bet as to the outcome of my lord Saintignon and Miss Makepeace's meeting. Lord Nigel passed the thirsty Tempest a flask of liquor from his great-caped coat and after only a moment of deliberation, Tempest partook of it and coughed heartily afterwards.

"Here he comes!" shouted a rider with the sharpest eyes.

The conversations trailed off. Dice stilled between hands. Wagers ceased. Mr. and Mrs. Holden stopped cooing and peered out the window. Bernie Sanders woke from his nap, and his son hooted in glee outside.

They saw at once how Saintignon had been able to set such a spanking pace to arrive so quickly on the heels of the riders. A long carriage set on high wheels came towards them at dangerous speed led by six matched horses.

"Six horses!" gasped the coachman. "Hark'ee!"

"A bit extravagant, even for Saint," said Lord Marchmont.

"It's a miracle he hasn't overturned," Lord Nigel replied.

Before long, the carriage drew to a stop in front of them, and the tiger leaped down from between the front traces. Saintignon stood, impossibly tall and imposing, on the driver's seat, gazing about him with narrowed eyes before focusing on Tempest.

She felt the force of that gaze all the way down to her feet and stepped back several paces, as though she could hide behind the figures of Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel.

"Well, Miss Makepeace, I've finally caught up to you," Saintignon said, stepping down from the carriage steps. His blacks molded to the lines of his tall, athletic figure and he looked no worse after his fever the night before."Can you please join me inside the carriage?"

There was something that signaled steely determination in his eyes and Tempest shook her head in the negative before she even realized what she was doing.

"We will, of course, be chaperoned," Saintignon said ironically and beckoned to something inside the carriage.

Another head peered out from the carriage. It was a lady of middling years, who looked myopically at them from behind spectacles.

"A relative," Saintignon said. "A third cousin of sorts. Make the acquaintance of Miss Arabella Belham. So, you see, Miss Makepeace, you are perfectly safe."

"What's happening?" shouted one of the outside passengers.

"Cor, looks like a proposal, don't it?"

"Is she going to talk to his nibs or what?"

Tempest stiffened her shoulders and walked forward so that Saintignon could hand her into the carriage.

It was the most luxurious carriage Tempest had ever seen. Every inch of the carriage was upholstered and the floor was even carpeted. No straw for the feet here. The seats were lush and deep and soft, guaranteed to provide a comfortable journey. Tempest wanted to lie down on the seat right then and there.

The windows were wide and clear, with a double layer of fine damask curtains tied up at the sides. A small table had set up on the seat opposite with a tray of refreshments on top. Seeing it made Tempest realize she had hardly eaten at breakfast and had nothing to break her journey since then.

"Please," Saintignon said, but he gave her a small push in the small of her back so that she sat down on the front facing seat with a thump.

Once seated, Tempest nodded civilly at Miss Arabella Belham and said, "How do you do."

"She's deaf," interjected Saintignon, folding himself into the seat opposite.

Tempest whirled on him.

He shrugged a shoulder. "She was the closest relative on hand and she's got a pedigree a mile long. Miss Makepeace-"

"I'll have you know I saved your worthless life yesterday!" she burst out in a fit of nerves. "There's no call for this sort of...hounding!"

"You...Worthless?" he repeated, and then his brows snapped together. "It was because of you that I caught the worst cold of my life!"

"You don't seem to be ill now," Tempest flashed back.

"Well, I-" he broke off, seemed to realize that they were straying from where he wanted to go and shook his head as though to clear it. "We have to get married."

Tempest started. "What did you say?"

He looked away and rubbed his chin in an uncharacteristic motion of unease. "You heard me."

"I…must have misheard."

"Clearly, because of what happened yesterday, we have to get married," he said.

"Yes, I realized that I had thoroughly ruined myself, but…surely your reputation would not suffer for it?"

"Naturally it shall not!" he said disdainfully. "My consequence is more than sufficient to cover a multitude of sins. A Saintignon is-"

"Yes, all the world knows it!" she snapped back. "The world is built on the name of Saintignon and nothing else. But what has that to do with marriage? To…you?"

He smirked and leaned back into his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him. He appeared entirely at his ease. His relative, Miss Belham, appeared to be snoring. "Clearly, I am offering to restore your name to you. I am offering marriage to a Saintignon. The highest honor in the world."

Tempest mulled over this until Saintignon barked, "Well?"

"I'm not quite sure I understand," she said honestly. "How will it restore my name when it is called off?"

"What do you mean, called off? A Saintignon's honor is absolute. Once promised, a vow cannot be rescinded."

"Yes, but you are offering a sham engagement, are you not?" Tempest gazed at him with uncomprehending eyes.

He looked away, crimson staining his high cheeks. "Yes, of course."

"Then...I must refuse, my lord," she said honestly. "I believe your intentions are kind, but the effects of a cancelled engagement would be disastrous as well, and I would as lief not delay the inevitable."

Saintignon's brows snapped together and he looked frazzled and irritated. "No, it-"

"Pay up, March!" the unmistakable sound of Lord Nigel's voice could be heard within carriage.

"I would have wagered my life that it would end well," Lord Marchmont was complaining.

Saintignon opened the glass window to glare at his friends. "What is the meaning of this? I am trying to conduct a private conversation!"

"And botching up the job," Lord Nigel said cheerfully.

"Miss Makepeace," Lord Marchmont yelled. "Please do accept Saint's proposal. It shall do your distinction no end of good, as you will be the only person who has successfully wrung a proposal out of the Four Horsemen."

"You will be lauded as a heroine," added Lord Nigel. "No one will look askance at any fiancee of a Saintignon."

"Say yes!" yelled a few of the men down the road.

Tempest swung her gaze between all the men sitting advice at her. It was true that during her time in London, the most favorable treatment she had received was after Saintignon had asked her to dance. If that was true, could she…would she be able to bypass the scandal of the night before?

 _I have no choice_ , she said to herself. _And I am so very, very tired, and this seat cushion is the most comfortable place I've sat in the past four hours. Would it be so very bad to just go along with his scheme?_

Aloud, she said, "I thank you, Lord Saintignon, for the honor and opportunity you have given me. My answer is yes."

 ***Thus ends Part 1 of The Four Horsemen. I hoped you enjoyed this. Stay tuned for more in future!***


	24. Part 2, Chapter 24

Things moved rapidly from there.

Tempest was whisked from the road into the carriage and on the road north to Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble in the best carriage ride she had ever had. The speed was so fast that at times it felt as though they were spinning out of control, but they made good time and arrived at their destination hours ahead of the coach.

At Tempest's behest, Matilda was also included into the carriage for the trip north as Tempest had deemed Miss Belham more show than chaperone.

Saintignon had gotten a horse from somewhere and rode outside, wearing a broad brimmed, low crowned hat that made him look like a tall, dangerous bandit. His traveling carriage followed behind them at a more sedate pace.

The engagement notice was sent from the next posting inn when the carriage bearing Saintignon's man of affairs had caught up with them, and letters sent to all those he deemed relevant. A note was also posted to Lady Islington informing her of their return to London in a few weeks.

Things were moving so fast that Tempest's heart sped up as a result. What was happening? Had she actually agreed to this sham engagement with Saintignon? Would she regret it?

It seemed fraught with danger. She could not forget that he was her enemy from London, even though his actions since that time had been nothing but-yes, she could admit it now-thoughtful. He had waited almost an entire day for her. He had chased after her to propose an arrangement that would salvage her reputation. These all seemed uncharacteristic of the man she had grown to hate in London.

And then, it was difficult to hate the way her life had taken a turn almost immediately. She had always traveled by mail or stage. Traveling by post was a luxury she had never envisaged, and the trip to Lowesbrough in Albie's well-sprung traveling carriage had been an unlooked-for treat.

But traveling with Saintignon belonged in a different category altogether. The finest of posting inn rooms were opened to her to rest for a few minutes each time, rooms she had never before gained entrance. They made an overnight stop at a hunting box of Saintignon's in North York that stunned Tempest with its extravagance. Such decor, such rooms, a ready staff-all for an estate used a few times out of the year-if that. It was a smaller house of only ten rooms, but the grounds could have covered all of Lowesbrough.

She was impressed, she was amazed, she was, yes, she could admit it to herself: ever so slightly cowed.

It was an entirely different world traveling with the Marquis Talleyrand, Dominic Saintignon. Finally, she understood why Lady Islington had raved.

Outriders rode ahead to procure rooms and refreshments. They arrived at every inn with a line of servants standing by with a bow and a smile to do their every bidding. Tempest could have taken a bath at every stop they made, so ready was the service. Hot bricks were endless; she had only to lift her feet before a new one was placed before her. Drinks were served first to her, as Saintignon demanded. Two maidservants attended her at every stop. The fur that was draped over her lap inside the carriage was the finest, softest fur she had ever encountered, lightly heated so that she would not take a chill. Not that she could have, with the hot drinks, the finely appointed carriage, and the service at her disposal.

Smiles from staff abounded. She never heard a cross word in her presence, and she only had to tilt her head to the side before someone came rushing up to inquire after her well-being. There was no waiting at all, no standing to one side, no unhappiness to be had.

It was a glimpse into the world of the uppermost classes.

It was exhilarating, it was suffocating, it was exhausting.

It was so different from the world she had inhabited before that she could almost believe she had been living in a different country. Before, as a single woman of no particular title, birth, or wealth, traveling alone, she spent most of the time scraping, curtseying, waiting for service. Many was the time when she received a sharp word, insolence, or, more often, pretended ignorance of her existence.

She thought she had a small idea why Saintignon had such a horrid personality. Such obeisance was not normal. To grow up with so much wealth and power was to appreciate nothing and to consider common folk rubbish beneath your feet. To go nowhere without hordes of people bowing or chafing at your heels or requesting alms was also the stuff of nightmares.

Tempest tried to broach this subject at the inn where they stopped to change horses. They would be leaving the matched six horses and exchanging them for a team of four.

"My family lives in a very small house in Upper Cheltendon," she said carefully, noting Matilda exchanging snappy insults with Lord Nigel in the background.

"Naturally," said Saintignon, making Tempest wish she could slap that smirk off his face. "Every house is small compared to mine."

"How many estates do you own?" she asked curiously.

"Too many to count," he said. "Perhaps twenty that I frequent in England, several others in Wales and Scotland. You referred to the British Isles, did you not? I travel to Ireland far less often. Unless you refer to the properties managed under my name, such as shops and etc.? If so, I'm afraid I have idea. You can apply to Mr. Daniels for the exact number." Mr. Daniels was his man of affairs. "But, as to my personal favorites, I quite enjoy the estate near the lakes, the house in Kensington, and Brighton, of course."

"What about your properties on the Continent? The villa in Italy cannot be discounted, surely?" Lord Marchmont asked.

Saintignon waved a languid hand. "Yes, the Mediterranean can be very lovely."

"Once Napoleon is truly routed, we will have to return to Paris for a visit," Lord Nigel said dreamily. "Ah, the women there…"

"The Saintignons also own plantations in the Americas," Lord Marchmont said helpfully.

"But Russia is the best," Saintignon said.

"Why?" Tempest asked, her mind still grappling with the extent of Saintignon's wealth.

"Because there are serfs there, of course," Lord Marchmont said with a laugh. "Saintignon loves serfdom, like his parents!"

Tempest lost her smile.

It was clear these men lived in a different world entirely.

Previously, Tempest had heard of the wealth of the Four Horsemen, but the scale of it was astonishing to imagine. For someone whose father was on the verge of losing their family home, it was staggering to imagine someone who owned not one, not two, but hundreds of properties in the burrows of London alone, much less in far away places, countries across the seas.

Saintignon, she knew, had no brothers. He was the sole heir of the Duke d'Auvergne-Talleyrand.

Yes, Tempest thought. If anything could convince her of the falsity of their engagement, it was reviewing the facts and differences between them. She could as well imagine herself as the Marchioness Talleyrand as living underwater, much less as a Duchess, as any wife of Saintignon would be eventually.

Not so Saintignon. Even with his constant maddening comments of how poor she was, his conversation included her at all times. He was constantly saying, "You'll visit there, of course" or "I'll take you there." He was, she had to admit, doing a first-rate job of keeping up appearances of the engagement.

Now they were drawing inexorably closer to Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble and back home. Her comments of their sham engagement depending on her parents were waved aside with an imperious hand, as Saintignon took control of all proceedings. If the servants were obsequious, Saintignon demanded it as his - and her - due.

He was unendingly solicitous of her welfare, as though she were a pet. He placed his overcoat over her shoulders if she emerged from the carriage without a wrap. He snapped his fingers for the tea to be brought first to her. He grabbed her hand and looped it firmly around his elbow, holding it in place with aggressive, possessive fingers should she show signs of withdrawing. When she failed to look towards him, he would reach out to pull her chair closer to him, so that he could direct her attention to him and only him.

At one stop, there was a group of loud young bloods in the parlor. As the only females in the room, Tempest and Matilda earned a number of loud, crude remarks until Saintignon, his hand tightening into a fist, stood up. Marchmont placed a restraining hand on his arm, but before Saintignon could deal with them in his age-old method, furious whispers between the bloods were exchanged, and two shuffled forward to apologize and make their respects to Lord Talleyrand and company. A screen was erected, separating their group from the bloods.

When Tempest peered between the slats of the screen, Saintignon took her chin in his fingers and turned her face to him, saying, "You have nothing to fear from them. Look no more at them."

But it wasn't them she feared.

Tempest sought for a private audience when they stopped at an inn in the town outside of Upper Cheltendon. It was hard to speak privately with him, for she was inside the carriage the entire time with Matilda and Miss Belham, even though he rode outside her window most of the time.

"Saintignon, I should like to ask you when the sham will be over," she broached.

"You shall call me Dominic after we are married," he said. "In fact, it pleases me to have you name me now."

She blushed at the mention of marriage and his Christian name. "We shall not be married," she tried again. "Do you recall? It is to be a sham only. When can we send in a notice of cancellation to the papers? Such things have been done posthaste before-"

"All things shall proceed in their proper order," he said. "To that end, we are calling on your parents, as is correct."

"I...should not like my parents to get their hearts set on this marriage," she said in a low voice.

Saint smirked in response. "What, shall they be in alts over the prospect of me as their son-in-law?" he said, looking insufferably satisfied.

She flushed. "Pleased as they may be," she said evenly, "it shall never come to pass. It is to be a _sham_ , or had you forgot?"

"Play your cards right, my girl, and I shall be yours forever," Saintignon said teasingly, leaning close to her.

It was so astonishingly unlike him that for a moment she stared at him in uncomprehending perplexity. Only his face moving inexorably closer to hers snapped her from her stupor and she pushed him away, uttering a shrill, "What are you doing?"

"It is not beyond the realms of propriety for an engaged couple to share a few kisses."

"We are not engaged!" she shouted, throwing up her hands in the air. But when he brushed away her words and bundled her back into the carriage with unusual good humor, she gave up arguing for the moment.

He had given up on tormenting her before. Surely this new game had its end sometime. Didn't it?


	25. Chapter 25

They reached Upper-Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble that afternoon. The sun cast a glow on the slow-moving River Trumble as they moved over the Trumble Pass. The River Trumble was a small tributary of River Wear, and Upper Cheltendon a small town with no notable roads and only the old Roman road to the northeast to connect to the Great North Road. A market town was hard by, providing Cheltendon its primary connection with the outside world.

After the glittering metropolis of London, the bustle of Lowesbrough, and the luxury of the hunting boxes in Yorkshire, Tempest was almost ashamed as they drew closer to her home. Cheltendon had coal-mining on small scale, and glass-making and weaving; these were the primary sources of trade in the area, but the lack of good roads decreased the production of anything to a very small scale.

The Makepeace family managed to get by on Mr. Makepeace's inheritance, and her father luckily also had the patronage of Bishop Durham, a very generous patron of education and architecture. Nevertheless, it was a rural area, and Tempest wondered what this sophisticated group would find to do when night fell.

They alit from the carriage one at a time in front of the small manor house. The door cracked open.

"Mary," Tempest greeted the housemaid with delight. "I've come home."

Mary looked at her expressionlessly. "And no' married, I'll reckon. Aye and the missus won't be pleased to hear it."

Without a word, Mary went back into the house, leaving Tempest and her guests standing on the front steps.

Tempest flushed. "Our butler Giles has very bad rheumatism of the knees," she lied. "Mary usually stands in for him when we don't expect guests."

"This is the smallest house I've ever seen," observed Saintignon bluntly. "Can you really call yourself the gentry?"

Lord Marchmont cleared his throat. "We'll make our way to Auckland Castle. I knew the Bishop before he was Visitor at Oxford. I heard his wife passed away recently. We should go and pay our respects," said Lord Marchmont before he and Lord Nigel tactfully retreated.

Tempest opened the door to the house herself. "Mother! Papa? I've come home!"

Thuds echoed through the house. Floorboards creaked. "Tempie? Is that you?" shouted her mother's familiar voice before she appeared through a doorway. Mother and daughter flushed with embarrassment.

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Makepeace, rounded cheeks turning bright red under the liberal coating of dust. She wore an old and torn cap on top of messy hair, and a dirty apron tied over her oldest gown. "We've been doing some spring cleaning, you see," she said, running a hasty glance over her visitors, the elderly but fashionable Mrs. Belham, the prim Mathilda Stearns, and the tall, saturnine features of the ever elegant Dominic Saintignon.

"Tempest, dearest, take your guests into the front parlor. NO! Wait! Er...take them through to the garden, it's so pleasant this time of the year. I'll be back very shortly! The bell pulls have rotted through, so I must get the servants myself!" Her voice faded as she rushed off through the house.

Staring after her mother, Tempest said evenly, "Please, let's do as she says and let us have afternoon tea in the garden. The garden is my mother's pride and joy," she lied, leading the way to the back, hoping, as it had been her mother's suggestion, that it at least would not disgrace them.

Her hope was proven wrong as the garden, usually sparse but somewhat pleasant looked as though it had been ravaged. A nearby tree had been felled and lay across the bare garden, its rotting corpse an eyesore.

Tempest indicated her guests to the lawn chairs set out behind the house, glad that Mathilda Stearns was being her usual reticent self and that Miss Belham was vague as always, although their silence was oppressive on her nerves.

Then, "This is horrendous," Saintignon said, indicating the settee beside him. "Do you mean for me to sit in this half rotted cushion? My clothes shall be dirtied beyond repair!"

Tempest turned bright red. "Sit down!" she ordered, wondering what the other two women would do if she were to suddenly strike him in their midst.

He perched in a gingerly fashion before giving a great start. "Good God! What on earth has happened to your garden? Not that it would have been of any account before, but why has that unsightly tree trunk not been removed? It's as though your garden is haunted! Your gardener should be strung up and flogged for such extreme dereliction of duty!"

Tempest forbore this, as they had no gardener, and turned her profile to him, saying, "Have you been in the area before, Miss Stearns?"

"No, but of course I have always wanted to see Hadrian's Wall, and this place is only a short distance away."

"That measly wall," scorned Saintignon, before Mrs. Makepeace trilled behind them.

"My dears! I do apologize for the ghastly wait. Please do join me in the parlor. I've had the maids put together a splendid tea for us there," said a freshly adorned Mrs. Makepeace. Her hair had been hastily tied up with three or four ribbons of different colors, and she was now wearing the most expensive-and fussy-dress in her wardrobe, a dress made up in chartreuse velvet and trimmed with sateen ribbons. Tempest wanted to sink into the ground.

"Your dear father is away with the Bishop Durham. The dear man cannot do without Mr. Makepeace," she informed their guests. "Why, the dear Bishop has been known to send for Mr. Makepeace daily, just to converse and listen to his witticisms!"

Tempest wished they had all left with Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel. It was only a matter of time before Saintignon opened his mouth to insult her mother, her father, and their entire house.

But, "I cannot wait to meet him," Saintignon said, raising Mrs. Makepeace hand up and bowing very correctly over it.

Mrs. Makepeace tittered. "Dear, dear. Wherever is that man Giles? Oh, I say, we don't have anyone to make the introductions."

Since Giles was their family's familiar pretext for callers, Tempest was well aware that the man would never show.

"Allow me," Saintignon said with a charming smile. "Allow me to present my cousin, Miss Arabella Belham of the Suffolk Belhams. Miss Matilda Stearns of, I believe, Northbridge. And yours truly, Dominic Saintignon, Marquis Talleyrand, Viscount d'Chamborne, Baron de Vere, etc., etc. Exceedingly honored to finally make your acquaintance."

"My!" was all Mrs. Makepeace was capable of saying. "Marquis Talleyrand, Viscount d'Chamborne, Baron de Vere, did you say?"

"You have an incredible memory, ma'am," Saintignon said with a small bow of his head. "It took me the better part of my life to remember all that and several others."

"Several others!" Mrs. Makepeace repeated, a hand shaking with delight held up to her beribboned bosom.

"Tea!" said Tempest loudly. "In the parlor, I believe you said?"

"And you are...unmarried?" Mrs. Makepeace went on, half-heartedly waving them ahead of her.

Teeth set, Tempest led Mrs. Belham and Miss Stearns to the parlor, the irritating conversation between her undulating mother and the stranger that was the charming Saintignon unfolding behind her.

Tea turned out to be a better spread than she could have envisioned. How her mother managed to turn out such a selection with no notice was beyond her. Miss Belham, as usual, deaf to the company and seemingly placid in the wake of these strange events, ate crumpets at a furious pace. Miss Stearns also appeared to enjoy the light streaming in through the bay windows.

"Unmarried, yes," responded Saintignon. "But, alas, not for long. And so I hoped to speak with Mr. Makepeace in private…?"

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Mrs. Makepeace shakily. "Your father, Tempest, your father! Where is that dratted man?"

"Mother, may I speak to you about Giles please?" Tempest broke in. "This is a matter best discussed in the hall. I apologize to our guests in advance," she said, and hauled her mother out of the room after her.

"Oh, Tempest," her mother breathed. "This is beyond my wildest dreams. This is beyond my imagination. You have done so brilliantly! I cannot imagine. Oh, my dear girl, oh, how beautifully you have laid out our-ahem, _your_ -future ahead of us. Saintignon...that is, oh my goodness. The Talleyrand Saintignons? But there is only the one Saintignon, of course. Where is my Debrett's?"

"Mother, please listen to me. I know you have not had time to receive my letter. Please pay attention! All is not as it seems!"

"How can it not be? The man has escorted you home with his relative, a very respectable matron, and that other Friday-faced woman. All is as respectable as anything! And he has asked to speak to your father!"

"Mother!" Tempest cut in, grabbing her mother by the shoulders and giving her a hard shake. "We were caught in a compromising situation. Do you understand? I was very nearly ruined. He has...offered to pretend to be engaged to me. It is only for show. A _temporary_ show."

"I...see. A compromising situation," Mrs. Makepeace repeated, and then smiled widely at Tempest. "Oh, you naughty girl! You have done very well indeed. He is well and truly caught now!"

"We will call it off after an appropriate time has passed," Tempest said, pressing a finger to her aching forehead.

"Of course you won't, my dear. And if he calls it off, why, we shall sue for breach of promise!" breathed Mrs. Makepeace gleefully.

"Where's Papa?" asked Tempest wearily.

"He has gone to market town," Mrs. Makepeace said. "But he shall be back this even, and so had he better be! A chance of a lifetime, and he is not whistling it down the wind for all of us! A Saintignon, why, that is richer than the Golden Ball! Oh, Tempest, we shall live richly to the end of our days!"


	26. Chapter 26

The Bishop Durham was delighted with his aristocratic guests. His local residence, known locally as the Bishop's Palace, was a Gothic Revival manor house with a huge deer park that was often the aim of avid hunters. He apologized for the state of the Palace, for many of the rooms were undergoing renovation by the architect, James Wyatt.

He planned, it was said, on giving a grand reception to his guests, and it was said that even the Regent would attend, if his Highness's trip north remained unchanged.

"Tempest, this will be the making of you," her mother breathed.

Even Matilda unthawed to say that it was a very great honor for the both of them to be invited to such a gathering.

"For you aren't accustomed to such proceedings, are you?" that lady asked Tempest.

"I was presented in London for my Come-Out," Tempest admitted. "But it was not a very grand debut, for I scarcely had grand clothes for balls."

"Then how have you come to be acquainted with such as the Four Horsemen?"

"I am still wondering that myself," Tempest said.

"They are the 'Four Horsemen,' yet I count only three."

"One…one is in Liverpool," Tempest said haltingly. "Or even now en route for Africa."

Matilda watched the swell of color that flooded Tempest's cheeks. "I see," she said with her usual equanimity and Tempest was glad no more questions were forthcoming.

Tempest's thoughts frequently strayed to Lord Rochefort, with the same theoretical refrains. What if she had confessed her feelings for him? What would he have said? What if lady Susanna had _not_ been leaving her husband? What if? _Oh, what if!_

But it was all theoretical, and her encounters with Rochefort had been all too brief. She had only memories to sustain her, and she knew that pine though she did, life marched unerringly on.

The reception dinner loomed up on them. Mrs. Makepeace spoke of nothing else, and Matilda, their guest, bore it out.

On the evening of the reception, Tempest awaited downstairs for a normally early Matilda to find that lady transformed.

"Why, Matilda!" Tempest gasped in admiration. "You look so lovely with your hair in that becoming style. And color suits you so well!"

Matilda blushed and looked even lovelier. Her hair, dressed in curls around her face, softened her features and gave her an elegant, patrician profile. The dress, a fashionable merino evening gown in dark burgundy, revealed a surprisingly curvaceous body.

"My, aren't we the dark horse," remarked a sour Mrs. Makepeace, casting a dirty glance towards Matilda's dress. "And here we thought you a poor relation."

"You look lovely, Matilda," Tempest cut in. The two had become closer in the ensuing weeks and were now on first name basis.

"Thank you," said Matilda haltingly. "I...I have not worn fashionable clothing for quite some time."

"It suits you," Tempest said. "I shouldn't be surprised to see you as the belle of the ball!"

"Why'd you invite that brazen hussy?" hissed Mrs. Makepeace, pulling Tempest back so that they were out of earshot.

"Brazen?" Tempest said. "How is she brazen? If anything, she is too buttoned-up and straight-laced."

"Mark my words," Mrs. Makepeace said darkly. "That one's brazen as the day is long."

But Mrs. Makepeace was proven wrong when Matilda blushed and ducked her head in response to Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel's fulsome compliments.

"You've been hiding your light under a bushel," remarked Lord Nigel, gazing openly at her. "The transformation is...remarkable."

"You've beauty to rival our newcomers from London," agreed Lord Marchmont and begged for the honor of the first dance.

"Certainly, you have Miss Makepeace beat," Lord Nigel drawled, taking out his quizzing glass and using it to sweep Tempest from head to toe with a disparaging gaze. "Miss Makepeace, could you not have put in slightly more effort into your appearance?"

Her mother had insisted on "brightening up" a gown given to her by Lady Islington, with the effect that Tempest looked like an over-decorated cake.

"Or perhaps it's slightly _too_ much effort," Lord Nigel said, quirking one expressive brow.

Matilda glanced sideways at Saintignon, who emerged behind them carrying a beverage in his hand.

"Perhaps we should let Saint be the judge," Lord Marchmont said with a smile.

"Miss Makepeace is pretty no matter what she wears," Saintignon pronounced flatly, and handed the glass to Tempest. "You must be thirsty."

Lord Nigel's jaw had dropped in an insulting manner at Saintignon's flat tone. "Miss Makepeace, pretty? You must be jesting-" he was about to contest.

"You have forgotten a drink for Miss Stearns," Lord Marchmont cut in diplomatically as reminder to Saintignon.

Saintignon swept a look over the rest of them, looking pointedly at Marchmont and Lord Nigel. "I rest assured that someone else will tend to her."

Not wanting to be a topic of dissension on either beverages or her appearance, Tempest passed the glass of negus to Matilda. "I'm really not very thirsty."

"Come," Saintignon said to Tempest, taking her elbow in his hand and ignoring everyone else. "Let's go meet our host. I want to introduce him to you."

"Saint, you're supposed to introduce the two ladies to him together," Lord Nigel said to Saintignon's back with a shake of his head as he was ignored.

The reception was surprisingly filled with a number of people from London. "They've flocked here in anticipation of the Regent's arrival," Saintignon explained to her. "But he's notoriously fickle and like as not, he'll be absent."

To her surprise and consternation, Elsa Arenberg was one of Londoners who had journeyed north. "Well, this _is_ a surprise," she said, eyes widening on seeing Tempest. Her lovely eyes hardened when she saw Saintignon next to Tempest.

"And is this a new game, my lord?" she asked sweetly, laying one slim gloved hand on Saintignon's arm. "Is this a new aspect to our Scarlet Ribbon round?"

Saintignon went completely still and looked pointedly down at the hand on his arm before raising glittering and dangerous eyes to the offensive owner. "You're speaking to my fiancee," Saintignon replied in a soft, hard voice, his face threatening. "I thank you to address her as her due or face the consequences." He let his eyes travel insultingly down her person. "I don't doubt you understand my meaning."

Elsa Arenberg whitened but didn't back down. "Consequences? What consequences?" she laughed airily, fluttering her fan.

"Consequences," Saintignon said silkily, dropping his voice. "If she in any way felt or imagined a slight."

"Then...it's true?" gasped Iolanthe Ackhurst in a loud whisper, who appeared behind Elsa Arenberg.

"Yes, there was a notice in the Times, but naturally we thought it was a jest," laughed someone else.

"I am hardly likely to be the victim of such a jest," Saintignon said, his arm rock hard with suppressed anger under Tempest's hand. "Come, my dear," he said, leading Tempest away and leaving the group staring at their backs.

"Durham's receptions are never a sit-down dinner," Saintignon explained, in good humor once they were by themselves. "He leaves refreshments at the sideboards for people who wish to dine. He wishes for his receptions to feel informal and allow his guests to circulate." In no time at all, he had piled on a plate with monumental proportions and handed it to her. "Eat," he ordered. "I cannot trust your mother to feed you properly. Commoners are notorious for eating poor rations."

Even as she mindlessly took the plate, she glared up at him. "We are _not_ commoners, and we dine exceptionally well, thank you."

"Do you?" he asked. "Have you sampled Durham's fare? His chef is exceptional."

At a bite, she had to agree, even though the knowing smirk on Saintignon's face made her long to throw her plate at him.

"As always, food can shut up that mouth of yours," he said with a smile that was almost fond.

Bishop Durham was an elderly man in his seventies, but with strength to his stentorian voice and vigor in his step. Although his hair was white and he bore signs of grief for his wife, he was still a handsome man with a Roman nose and firm chin. "Ah, Lord Talleyrand, so you've decided to settle down, have you?" he said.

"I have," Saintignon replied. "Miss Tempest Makepeace, your grace."

"Makepeace. The daughter of Samuel Makepeace?"

"Yes, your grace," Tempest replied.

"I believe we have met before," the bishop said kindly. "She was most interested in my ideas for a local school."

Saintignon looked at her in surprise. "You didn't tell me you were acquainted with the bishop."

"I wasn't sure his grace would remember me," she admitted.

"You will be happy to know that the school opened only last May and I am glad to report that the gentler sex are also welcome to attend."

"That is extremely good news, your grace. Education can but lift up the populace, for who are we but the lowest of us all?" she said enthusiastically.

"Unhappily, there is some controversy as to the existence of the school, not to mention the education of young girls," the bishop admitted before turning to Saintignon. "You have excellent taste, Lord Talleyrand. May your union be blessed and fruitful," said the bishop before moving away to speak with his other guests.

"A radical," observed Saintignon.

"He is a very intelligent gentleman who is bettering the nation a little at a time," Tempest said hotly.

"Education for the masses would but sow seeds of discontent," Saintignon said dismissively. "The Prince Bishop is wasting his time with his radical and useless reforms. Mark my words, everyone is fearful of a revolution, especially since one has given rise to a terror like Napoleon. He would be better occupied writing his memoirs or face being stripped of his title."

"The bishop is doing what he feels is contributing to our society, which is shamefully unequal," she said as evenly as possible.

"The poor were born to their station and should be condemned to die there as punishment for their stupidity and laziness. Trying to elevate them is like letting pigs into the house," Saintignon pronounced arrogantly. "Useless and unseemly. Allowing them freedom instead of operating under the far more humane reins of slavery is abomination enough."

"Do you not believe that such men, low-born though they are, are deserving of the most basic right of knowing their letters?" she asked.

"They are no better knowing. As such, resources are wasted upon such endeavor."

"Cannot you concede that impoverished though their upbringing, in the sight of God, we are all created equally?"

Saintignon laughed. "How can we be created equally when one man is born to rule over another?"

"One day, things shall be different," Tempest said fiercely. "Common man shall have their say, and women shall have equal standing as men. Slavery should be abolished. No man can have endless hold over another human being."

"You speak such poppycock I wonder your mind has not gone. Slavery has created colonies and built up great cities. To abolish such a system is senseless, unprofitable. A man whose country has lost to another ceases to become a man of equal standing as his conquerors. And commoners, with the right to govern a country-"

"That is precisely why they need education, so that they have the ability to govern-"

"And women, with the vote," he scoffed, smiling indulgently. "It is preposterous for them to addle their weak brains with laws and the rule of a country."

Tempest's fist clenched at her side. "What of women who are abused and unable to leave such a relationship for fear of losing her livelihood?"

"They should have had the fortune to be born to a better father. Such people are not long for this world, I'm afraid. Any abuse only weeds out the weak."

His callousness made her shake her head in disbelief. "We are clearly people with diametrically opposed views," she replied tightly. "Luckily, our engagement is but a sham."

Saintignon went completely still. "It is real to me," he said, all trace of levity wiped from his face.

"It can never be," she said, shaking her head in rejection. "I can never survive with someone like you, much less love such a person. You are a despicable human being, and your views are worse than archaic-they are the views of a barbarian, a-a _monster_."

There was a pause in the air as though the earth had stopped spinning and all the world was holding its breath. Saintignon gazed at her with inscrutable black eyes and a furrowed brow. In the next instant, the spell was broken and he had turned his back on her and walked away.

For some reason, Tempest felt ashamed of her words. _But I shouldn't be_ , she comforted herself. _I spoke only truth._ He _was_ despicable. His views _were_ horrific.

But somehow she felt she had hurt Saintignon deeply and personally.

 _No, that's impossible_ , she thought. She had done far worse to him. She had struck him publicly and denounced him even more often.

How could that man be hurt by anything she did? He was a terror. He could wreak more havoc than Napoleon, and he didn't even hold military office.

But Tempest could not get the image of his face out of her mind, his tight lips and hurt eyes, as though what she said to him had lanced him through.


	27. Chapter 27

"The reception was so lovely," Matilda said for the fifth time since that evening. "Very congenial company."

"You seemed especially partial to Lord Nigel," teased Tempest.

Matilda blushed. "No, indeed not. He is a rake and delights in teasing me."

"I am curious, Matilda. Your clothes are very fine and expensive, and you say you belong to the Northbridge Stearns. You must be in possession of an excellent dowry. Have you no wish to marry?"

"I made my Come-Out in London, as you did," Matilda said slowly. "I was painfully shy. Every event was a horrible trial to be endured."

"I understand that feeling very well," sympathized Tempest, who, at that moment, felt extraordinary pity for the Matilda and Tempest of the past.

"Then I fell in love," Matilda said in wonderment. "I lived each day for the sight of him. One day, I could stand it no longer and approached him to tell him of my feelings."

"Oh, Matilda," said Tempest, knowing what was coming.

"He scorned me," Matilda said bitterly. "He called me an ugly woman and laughed at me."

"What a hateful man!" cried Tempest. "There, he is not worth your tears. Such a man is worth not a moment of your thoughts!"

Matilda smiled through her pain. "It is in the past. We are two of a kind, are we not?"

Tempest wondered uneasily later what that meant. Had she been so transparent? Were her feelings for Lord Rochefort hanging on her sleeve for all to see? Did the whole world know? Lord Rochefort had called her his shadow. Did _he_ know as well?

But Rochefort was not around. Much as Tempest's heart ached for a glimpse of him, she was relieved too, for fear her feelings would be apparent on her face around him.

To her horror, after establishing his school, Bishop Barrington seemed in no disposition to return to Castle Durham and remained at Auckland, despite the inconvenience of renovation. And society stayed also. Events abounded. Even Lady Islington returned to the area.

"La, my dears! How... _peaky_ you look, Tempest. Not in looks At All. However do you expect Saintignon to remain enamored of you?" Lady Islington said within moments of her arrival.

Tempest suddenly could not help but recall the moment Saintignon said, "Miss Makepeace is pretty no matter what she wears." How earnest he had seemed! How flat and matter of fact his tone! How hurt he had seemed when she called him despicable!

"Lady Delaney is giving a masked ball, it seems," Lady Islington informed them. "But first, there will be a picnic by the Levetts. Oh, and there shall be Pall-Mall. Such country delights!"

"A masked ball?" said Matilda. "That sounds…rather _fast_."

Lady Islington looked haughtily down her nose at her. "Lady Delaney is all that is proper, and the Prince Bishop is said to be thrilled with the idea, missy."

"All the same, Lady Islington," put in Mrs. Makepeace. "It wouldn't do for Tempest to get a _fast_ reputation. Not at all for a Saintignon bride. And I've heard that Lord Talleyrand considers the bishop to be...a-a _radical!_ " Mrs. Makepeace looked furtively around as if to make sure she had not been overheard by the bishop.

"Harrumph," Lady Islington replied grumpily. "I suppose I'll inquire about to see the lay of the land."

Mrs. Makepeace grumbled at Saintignon's disappearance from the area, wondering if he had indeed lost interest in her daughter.

Matilda glanced at Tempest before stating, "I heard he had important business and rode for his family estates."

He had not informed Tempest of his departure, but she shrugged it off. Perhaps he meant to do as she had said. Perhaps soon, they would call off their fake engagement.

Mrs. Makepeace moaned about Tempest's peaky looks while Lady Islington plotted and planned. Matilda worked at her embroidery and Tempest kept her own counsel.

The Levetts' picnic two days later was a treat for all and sundry as the couple was a young, vibrant, well-liked pair. The picnic was held on a section of the Trumble that was unpolluted and scenic. So many tables and chairs and umbrellas had been hauled out that the countryside looked like a market place. There were even a few giant marquees for food and refreshments.

"The weather is so lovely," Tempest said, enjoying the freedom that came from Saintignon's absence and resultant lack of maternal nagging. She wore a light muslin gown, glorying in the bright heat of the sun after so much winter.

But Matilda had gone still and silent. Tempest glanced at her with disquiet and saw that the other girl was gazing across the countryside to a tall fair man in a bright blue jacket.

 _Rochefort._

For a moment, Tempest's breath came and went. The name thudded in her breast.

Then, the man turned, and Tempest saw that it was someone else.

"Someone you know?" Tempest asked Matilda.

"Look at those children!" cut in Matilda before leaping from her seat. "They'll fall in for sure!"

Tempest's curiosity was piqued. Was this, then, the man who had scorned Matilda and broken her heart? For Matilda was outwardly placid but she felt a deep current of seething passion in the quiet woman.

Discreet peeking throughout the day revealed that the man bore an astounding resemblance to Lord Rochefort. Certain angles showed him to be an exact replica. But, unlike Rochefort, he was extremely outgoing and smiled and laughed with ease. He grinned at Tempest at one point and startled her in her staring.

"When a pretty lady stares at you so intently, it can only mean one thing," a lightly accented voice said at her ear.

Tempest jumped.

The man who looked like Lord Rochefort smiled down at her. "Would it be _faux pas_ to introduce myself?"

When Tempest did not immediately speak, he said, "Allow me this slight impertinence. I am Michel Tourville, an artist of no small repute."

Tempest stammered out a response.

"Shall we walk along the riverbed? You must tell me more of this beautiful country of yours. It is the thing to do in so beautiful weather, _n'est-ce pas_?"

A bemused Tempest allowed herself to be led beside the quiet burble of the Trumble, listening as the effusive Mr. Tourville chattered away.

"-but this cannot be called a river. It is more like a-creek, non?" he said, stopping in his tracks.

With a start, Tempest realized that she had been lost in her thoughts and that they were now in a secluded cluster of trees. The sound of laughter and chatter was suddenly very far away.

"You have extremely lovely eyes,

 _ma chérie_ ," Mr. Tourville was saying. "They are so very expressive and… May I?"

And before Tempest could react, he had reached up a hand to her hair.

"No-" she protested, backing away, but when he removed his hand, he showed her a twig that had been caught in her hair.

"The perils of dining al fresco," he observed, lips quirking as though to hide some secret amusement.

Tempest felt almost silly at her apprehension of him. Still, "Shall we walk back to the party?" she said.

" _Naturellement_ ," he agreed equably, and grandly held out his elbow.

"You said an artist," Tempest said. "Of what medium? What subject?"

"Ah, the lady is interested in a sitting? Watercolors is my specialty. And I can paint a very fine landscape indeed, but portraits...I will also accept if sufficiently inspired." He laughed a little at his own words. "A beautiful woman is always inspiration, _n'est-ce pas_?"

They were interrupted when a young girl came running up to them, holding her hat to her head and breathless from the exertion.

"Tempest! Oh, Tempest, then it really is you!"

Tempest's eyes widened. "Yolanda!"

"Yes, tis I!" the other girl replied laughingly and moved to embrace Tempest. "They told me you had returned. I myself only returned from Cornwall, as Papa's great-aunt had just passed away and oh-!" Yolanda turned guiltily to the tall man standing next to Tempest. "I do apologize for interrupting you, only I was too excited I could not wait!"

"No, you interrupted nothing," Tempest replied. "Yolanda, meet Michel Tourville. Mr. Tourville, my dearest friend, Yolanda Corval."

" _Enchanté_ ," said Mr. Tourville, raising the hand of the younger girl up to his lips.

Yolanda's eyes widened and she suppressed a giggle.

"And now I shall leave you two charming ladies to chat. _A bientot!_ "

"Oh, Tempest, I'm so happy to see you again. Is it true, are you now engaged to be married? Was that he? No, his name was different…wasn't it? Oh, I'm sorry I'm talking all of a heap!"

Tempest laughed. "I have much to tell you. When did you return?"

"Only yesterday. I rode up here with Felicity Andrews. It was she who told me of all our visitors! My goodness, did the Regent Prince really come?"

"I suppose she wouldn't have known," Tempest said with a laugh. "He was rumored to come but he didn't make an appearance."

"Alas, so much for Upper Cheltendon," said Yolanda. "His presence in town would have earned a placard for all of time."

Tempest laughed. "It is so lovely to have a friend with whom to converse! I feel like I have been cloistered and taken a vow of silence. Only now are my lips unsealed!"

"How can this be?" demanded Yolanda. "Was your Come-Out so horrible? You are engaged, are you not, and all would have it you are the luckiest woman in the world!"

"The truth is far more prosaic, I'm afraid," Tempest said wryly. "It was hardly a Come-Out, to begin with. We have no money for a proper wardrobe, as you know. Debutantes in London spend a veritable fortune on clothes. It was a mosaic of fashion plates come to life every day. They spend upwards of a hundred guineas on a single ball gown, which is only to be discarded immediately afterwards, as they would not wish to be seen in same gown twice."

Yolanda's eyes were wide. "I cannot credit such extravagance. Are we not at war? Are not supplies rationed and trade restricted?"

"It would seem not," Tempest said companionably, linking arms with the other girl as they moved from the cluster of trees. "People spoke French so often one would not think Napoleon our enemy. French fashions, French lace, French cuisine, even smuggled liqueurs were all countenanced by our country's leaders!"

"That is all very shocking, Tempest, but you are avoiding the subject at hand. You claim to have had a terrible time, but what of your engagement? What of your affianced? What manner of man is he? Do tell; I am simply dying of curiosity!"

"He is… Dominic Saintignon, the son and heir of the Duke d'Auvergne-Talleyrand."

Yolanda's eyes were aglow with excitement, and she clasped her hands together. "Oh, Tempest, is he as handsome as they say? Is it a love match? They say it happens infrequently, but…he is so wealthy and so important and…if he is also handsome in the bargain, he could have anyone. It _must_ be love on his part!"

"Love!" Tempest scoffed. "He hounded me to within an inch of my life in London. He set men after me to harass me. He followed me to Lowesbrough, where I visited with Albie-you remember Albie Kadenbury-he's a menace!"

"You sound as though you despise him, Tempest," Yolanda said in concern. "Have you to marry him then? Is it debt?"

"No, it is far more humiliating, I'm afraid. It is-you cannot repeat any of this to _anyone_ -"

"I swear I would never!" vowed Yolanda earnestly. "Not even if they tortured me!"

"Thank you, dearest, but I hope it shan't come to that! No, not debt, although my family is hardly well-heeled! But by an utterly careless, stupid, stupid act, I was compromised." Tempest explained the events leading up to her departure from Lowesbrough. "So, you see, I-we had to get engaged."

"I see," Yolanda said thoughtfully. "You were exceedingly brave, Tempest, to take control of his team and drive back to an empty manor. It must have been frightful!"

"Indeed, I was frightened out of my wits!"

"But perhaps he grew enamored of you after you cared for him so wisely and bravely. It is not every lady who could do such a thing and not fly up into the boughs."

"You have not met him, otherwise you wouldn't say such an unlikely thing!"

"Well, I shan't say a word to anyone, although it is such a pity it wasn't the fairy story I imagined. When will it all be over? Have you developed a _tendre_ for anyone else? Was it that man I saw you talking to just now?"

"Mr. Tourville? Hardly! I only met him today and but exchanged a few words with him!"

"I see," said Yolanda. "These people from London…are they friends of yours?"

Tempest smothered a scoff. "I don't believe a one of them would have claimed me as a friend before this…engagement."

"Then I pray you tread carefully, Tempest. They were laughing about how enamored you seemed to be over Mr. Tourville, and how incensed Lord Talleyrand-or Saintignon, as everyone calls him-would be. I hoped they were jesting but if they are not friends of yours…then they are out to make mischief. They make for dangerous society, I fear."

Tempest's fists clenched. "If only they would leave! What care I of my reputation if no one of London resides here? Is pity so much better than disgrace?"

"Is...is Saintignon unwilling to marry you?"

"I should never marry a man like Saintignon. He is a tyrant at the best of times and would view his wife as chattel. To listen to his archaic views is akin to suffering a painful apoplexy. Dying a spinster would be infinitely more preferable to dealing with the jealousy and the intrigue that follow him."

"I suppose so," said Yolanda doubtfully. "How lucky you were to have had such marvelous adventures, although I'm certain at the time they seemed more like nightmares! And how sad it is that your Saintignon didn't turn out to be your prince."

"Yes," Tempest said sadly, thinking of a fair-haired man, now halfway across the country.


	28. Chapter 28

Despite her misgivings about the propriety of the Delaneys' masked ball, Mrs. Makepeace was obliged to let Tempest attend. Lady Islington had a host of theories to back her views, which she loudly voiced while brandishing the Delaneys' invitation like a weapon.

"Do you not think the Four Horsemen attend such balls in London, or Paris, or wherever they were wont?" the lady demanded. "I tell you thusly, they meet ladies of societies in every sort of function, and if Tempest is not accustomed to such affairs, then she shall be decidedly _de trop_ as his wife!"

And so Mrs. Makepeace was quickly brought about to the threat of Saintignon realizing the unsuitability of Tempest as a future bride and so gave up her "Methody notions."

With a satisfied sniff at Mrs. Makepeace's acquiescence, Lady Islington swept off after informing them of their itinerary.

Both Tempest and Matilda had been invited to the house party at the Delaneys' some kilometers north of River Wear that would require them to stay for a few nights. Matilda seemed oddly excited and had produced an emerald green domino for Tempest to wear with a matching jeweled mask.

"For I was afraid you would have nothing to wear and would leave me to attend with Lady Islington. My, she's a real tartar!" Matilda said in admiration.

In addition to the wheedling of those three women were Tempest's constant worries about her father. As the firstborn, Samuel Makepeace had unfortunately inherited a small livelihood and no marketable trade or skills. His younger brother, on the other hand, had managed to eke out a fairly prosperous living as a solicitor. The house should have been devoid of the pieces that had been sold to send Tempest to London, but she found herself eyeing a new rug or a painting that shouldn't have existed. Her mother insisted mysteriously that they had a benefactor, but who was doing the giving?

Then, there was her brother, also sent to Eton in order to hobnob with their betters. Tempest was sure that the Makepeace family did not possess the wherewithal, either monetary or intellectual, for young Severin to attend the school before she had left for London.

Equally troubling was that she could never manage to speak two lines alone with her mother in order to find out the truth of the matter, and her father played least in attendance.

And when Tempest was not chewing on her lip over her family's sudden monetary influx, she found her thoughts ever straying towards Lord Rochefort.

So it was with some relief that Tempest left for the house party with Lady Islington and Matilda. Lady Islington's constant monologue provided sanctuary from her thoughts, although she noted with disappointment that her friend, Yolanda, had not been included in the guest list.

But apprehension set in the moment they set foot inside the Delaney mansion. At a glance, there was an air of licentiousness that sat wrongly on Tempest's nerves. Lady Islington took one long appreciative sniff and said, "Ah, to be back in civilization!"

There was nothing ringing of formality here. Although that should have put country-born Tempest more at ease, contrarily, she was on edge from the gaggle of servants hurrying about and soft feminine giggles interspersed with low masculine chatter. There was something almost... furtive about the closeness of interactions between men and women.

They were shown to their rooms to rest before the dressing bell. It had only been a journey of a few hours, but Tempest lay on her back in the tapestried bed and stared at the bed hangings.

When she dressed and emerged from her bedchamber, it was to find a flurry of excitement that had swept through the house.

"The Horsemen are here!" someone whispered, and Tempest's heart gave one giant leap. When they congregated in the saloon before dining, she craned her head to see over the crowd for a fair head. _Was he…?_

Disappointment set in when she realized that only Saintignon and Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel had put in an appearance.

She was so disgruntled she took two glasses of sherry without noticing what she was drinking. Nor did she react when Lord Marchmont approached her.

"What on earth have you done to our Saint, Miss Makepeace?" he asked in a low murmur out of the side of his mouth.

Tempest had pretended to ignore the burning stares Saintignon had been sending her across the room. At Lord Marchmont's words, she glanced up directly into Saintignon's eyes and watched as a slow flush crept up his high cheeks and he turned abruptly away.

"I'm not sure what you can possibly mean," she said.

"Oh, really," Lord Marchmont said as Saintignon, in a fit of sudden temper, pushed a servant aside. The servant was shoved aside so forcefully that he stumbled and dropped his tray. Drinks splashed onto a rug as the servant scurried to his feet and managed to replace the glasses back on his tray. A ripple of laughter pulsed through the group and Tempest felt disgust all the way down to her toes. She started to move toward the servant, but he had already beaten a quick retreat from the room.

Saintignon looked around the room with overly bright eyes, searching for a new target. At her open stare, the corner of his mouth lifted in a horrendous parody of a smile, as though to say, "You see? I am the monster you labeled me." And then he cast his glass into the fireplace. The glass shattered with a loud crash. Conversation stilled.

Before she could cross the room to stop his madness, Lord Nigel had stepped forward. "Saint," he said lightly, but never got to finish his thought.

Saintignon was not to be stopped. Lord Nigel's restraining hand on his shoulder was shrugged off and Saintignon shoved the other man violently away.

Lord Nigel's eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed as he straightened himself. Saintignon was breathing hard, glaring from under his dark brows, one large hand fisted and raised.

The crowd was silent and still. There was only the sound of Miss Matilda Stearns as she came forward and took ahold of Saintignon's raised elbow.

"My lord," Matilda pleaded in a soft, fluting voice. "I daresay you don't know your own strength. Only-"

But she never finished. Saintignon jerked free of her grasp and backhanded her with his other hand so that she flew to the ground, eyes awash with tears, trembling hand to her injured cheek.

"How dare you touch me?" Saintignon bit out.

Lord Nigel stepped between them. "Apologize, you damned cur! How dare you slap a lady?"

Tempest also ran forward. Before he could respond with another show of brutal strength, she pushed in front of Matilda and sheltered the taller woman behind her. She struck his raised hand. "Stop it at once! She dares because that's the only way to tame a mad dog, sirrah! That's what you are!" she seethed.

He stared at her, chest rising and falling, but otherwise remaining still.

"Will you hit me now?" Tempest asked. "Do it. Do it now and suffer the consequences."

Matilda pulled away from Tempest to stand in front of Saintignon. "Don't," she said to Tempest in an even voice. "Don't strike him anymore. He is misunderstood, not mad. Stay your hand, Tempest! Such assault on his lordship is not to be tolerated."

Tempest stared in disbelief at Matilda, whose cheek was still bright red from being struck.

"I'm sorry for having caused this...this romp," Matilda was saying with a short laugh. "My lord, perhaps we can refresh ourselves?"

Tempest's bemused eyes followed Matilda as she gingerly led Saintignon from the room. She had been sure the other woman had deeply disliked Saintignon. Lord Marchmont was talking in a low voice with a furious Lord Nigel, who then strode angrily from the room, closely followed by his friend.

"Well," said a member of the crowd. "I've worked up a tremendous appetite now."

"Saintignon has been under exceptional strain," a female voice was heard to murmur as the group went in to sup.

"Our betters will have their foibles," someone said cheerfully as the courses were served.

"Saintignon is such an Original," laughed someone else. "Do you recall that horrid mushroom he chased out of the drawing room."

"Ah, yes, what an upstart. It is really thanks to Saintignon that we are saved from such tasteless savages."

 _Stop_! Tempest's mind screamed. _Have all of you gone mad?_ She wasn't certain, but it seemed as though she had voiced her thoughts out loud, for the table suddenly grew silent, despite Lady Islington's loud voice at the other end reporting on the excellence of the oysters and calling for a third portion to be served to her.

" _You_ should do better than to strike so indulgent a fiance," Iolanthe's snide voice said, her foxy face glaring at Tempest.

"Yes, Saintignon's the true saint," a disapproving male voice intoned. Tempest met the cold gaze of a man she remembered vaguely from London. "He should do better to chase _you_ from here."

"I beg your pardon?" Tempest said coldly, ready to launch into a defense of her person.

"It's no good denying it," said the sweet voice of Elsa Arenberg. "I'm afraid Saintignon doesn't take well to being cuckolded."

"What?" breathed Tempest. "What cuckold?"

"It's out in the open now," said one man, wiping his mouth briskly with the tablecloth, and then standing up from the table, his eyes unfocused and bright with drink. His chair screeched against the floor.

"We've all seen the sketchbook, you slut," said a man who had smiled benignly to her at Bishop Warrington's reception but now wore a haughty sneer as he glared. He, too, stood. "Who has it now?"

Murmurs resounded down the table.

"What sketchbook?" Tempest demanded, also standing now.

Eyes stared back at her from the long table. She had been placed at the very end, as insult to her low status. She noted uneasily that the men looked in varying degrees of boskiness, and that the women looked no better.

"Oh, dear, she professes ignorance of being drawn!" said a laughing voice.

"Such an abomination of a woman deserves to be lynched," growled another man with angry, beetled brows.

"Yes, it's no wonder Saintignon was in a state," murmured someone else. "Who wouldn't be angry at such a whore of a woman?"

"What sketchbook?" Tempest screamed, shaking now.

"It's not here," a lady down there table said. "But here's a page that fell loose."

A piece of paper floated across the air and would have landed in the turbot had not Tempest reached out a trembling hand to catch hold of it.

"He should have beaten her to death in the saloon," another voice proclaimed as Tempest took in the drawing in horror. "No one should have the shame of such a wife. With a common artist! Before they are even wed!"

It was a sketch of her in the nude. Her face was so precise that it was recognizable at a glance. Worse, she was not only posed in the nude, with a bedsheet tastefully covering her, but with her legs spread apart, gazing towards the artist lovingly.

"This...I did not consent to this!" Tempest yelled. "I did not sit for this drawing! It's a sick caricature!"

She looked down the table for help from Lady Islington, but that lady looked disheveled, sweating profusely. Her jeweled turban had slid down, revealing a wig that was lopsided, and a footman was helping her to her feet. In another second, the lady had wobbled from the room, leaving Tempest behind to face her persecutors.

"It's the image of this loose woman," said another man. "Tourville up and swore he had her."

"That's a lie!" Tempest screeched out.

"Looking as though butter wouldn't melt in her face. Faugh! Such hypocrisy from a nobody!" someone said before spitting in disgust.

"There's a surefire way to find out," Iolanthe said maliciously. "She's drawn with a mole in the small of her back in some of the other pictures. No man would know that unless he saw for himself."

"I spoke with Mr. Tourville only once!" Tempest pleaded, backing away from the table.

"Apparently, only once was good enough for her, the bitch," said another voice, dark with menace.

They crowded close to her, faces wearing what seemed to be the leering dark faces of the devil.

Tempest turned and ran.

A/N: Ah, Tempest. According to the original manga, she was supposed to slug him. Actually, now that I think of it, the manga is really quite violent. Lots of hitting that really shouldn't happen in real life. I had to rewrite my original scene for the drawing room violence in order that Tempest didn't also come across as a violent mad dog. Thanks for those readers who're still hanging in there. Sorry for Matilda turning into a grade-A piece of nastiness.


	29. Chapter 29

Tempest ran as though her life depended on it. She ran from the room and tried to remember where the front door was, or the door to a terrace. She had no idea where to go, only that she was running for her life.

Voices clamored around her, sounding for any second as though she would be caught. Her breath hitched as she overheard some of the hooting cries.

"Get her and hold her down!"

"Tourville won't be the only one to have his fun with her!" shouted another voice.

"First one to catch her wins fifty guineas from me, boys!"

Sounds of glass shattering and furniture being overturned accompanied the cries. It was romp turned lynching.

"There she is! Someone grab her!" a voice cried.

Something struck her faintly on the back, another glass shattered against the wall next to her with a loud cacophony. Tempest did not dare to turn around; she lifted her skirts and ran.

Finally she emerged from a hallway and ran to the front door, pulling fiercely at the handle. It didn't budge. With a choked cry of disbelief, she saw that the door was locked from the inside, as was the case with older, larger houses.

Tempest turned to run into next room, remembering that the saloons had been connected. Surely she could escape out a window. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in an upstairs room.

But, turning, she saw that her way was blocked by a leering man, and whirling to her left, the man she vaguely recalled as Lord Delaney advanced on her.

Heart in her throat, Tempest sprinted in the only direction away from them, straight up the grand staircase.

At the first landing, though, arms caught her and pinned her down. Tempest struggled and bit down on anything she could manage, screaming as loud as she could. Surely the servants would help her. Surely Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel-but they were friends of Saintignon's and he was capable of so much more fury.

Tempest continued to struggle as rough hands cuffed her neck and held her to the rug. Several hands reached out. There was a ripping sound and Tempest cried out as a surge of cold air hit her bare back.

"It's there!" said a triumphant voice.

"Mount that bitch, Demoynes!" someone shouted. "Saintignon will reward you well for it!"

"We all caught her!" A slurring voice. "I say we all have our turn!"

Tempest had sworn she would not cry but she was so frightened and immobilized that tears flowed freely from her eyes even as she struggled to crawl away.

Then, suddenly a loud male voice cut through.

"Stop this at once!" Saintignon's voice, low and commanding, carrying through the large hall.

"But, my lord," someone whined. "She has not been true to you."

"See for yourself, my lord," a feminine voice decreed. "Her mole matches the placement in the sketch."

Tempest was suddenly free from grasping hands. Holding her ripped dress to her chest, she scrambled to get up but was shoved to her knees.

The man who pushed her was struck down with a hard blow from Saintignon. "Get you gone henceforth!" Saintignon seethed at the man.

His eyes were full of fury as he turned to her. She could have wept at the black rage in his eyes and shrank as far back as she could manage, terror seizing her.

"He'll see to her punishment himself, my fine lads," someone smirked, and the men holding her down backed away.

"It's not true, Saintignon," Tempest choked out. "I spoke with him but once-"

"And walked off with him for a good hour!" shouted a voice.

"It's not true!" she whispered frantically in a voice ragged from screaming, looking up into his masklike face, a face white with unforgiving rage. "Please believe me! Please, I beg of you! All… I need is for you to believe me! Don't listen to them...it's not tr-" And then her voice hitched and she cried in earnest. For how futile it was to ask this fearsome man to not believe in something that was so cleverly set up. In her heart, she had no doubt that she would die, here, tonight, at his hands. Saintignon had arrived at the party already in a rage, and now he was faced with the ultimate loss of face, seemingly faced with the glaring infidelity of his fiancee.

In one swift movement, Saintignon stooped down and swept a flinching Tempest into his arms. Ignoring all the cries coming at him from different directions and her frantic struggles, he strode up the stairs, yelling at the servant behind him to send for a doctor.

In a low voice, he whispered in her ear, never lessening his hold on her, "Cease your struggling. I believe you. _I believe you._ "

Tempest was deposited in the middle of an enormous bed in an unfamiliar bedchamber. She clutched the tattered remains of her bodice to her chest, shivering, unable to truly believe him.

Without giving her a second look, he tossed a dressing gown on the bed next to her and walked through an adjoining door.

Fearing more reprisal and possibly death, she ran first to lock the door to the bedchamber, and then to lock the adjoining door when she ran straight into Saintignon's chest.

He held her to him for a brief moment before lifting her up and setting her back down on the bed.

"Where do you think you're going? Stay here!" he ordered sternly and she was so cowed that all she could was to hold her dress to her chest and back away from him.

A hand intruded upon her vision and lifted up her chin. She looked straight into his face as he knelt down beside the bed, afraid she would only see a black rage, but the only thing she saw on his visage was concern.

"Did they hurt you?"

"I-I-" she started to say and then broke down weeping at the kindness in his voice, so unexpected and welcome.

He pulled her down from the bed and into his lap where he cradled her head to his chest, muttering soothing sounds. "I won't let them hurt you, my love," he murmured. "Stop your tears now."

"They...were...going to _rape_ me," she said in a shaky voice.

His arms tightened around her and he ground out, "You're safe with me."

Tempest lifted her head up and stared questioningly at him. "Am I?"

His eyes never left her face as he nodded his head slowly. "Yes," he said, sounding like he was vowing to her, then swept his eyes over her face as though something pained him.

"You're cut here," he said in a voice that shook, and then he touched her cheek with one gentle hand.

"I-it was probably when they started to throw bottles at me to impede my flight. One hit the wall next to me, and the glass splintered."

He didn't reply but she heard a sharp intake of breath. "Anywhere else?" he asked in a steely voice.

"I'm not certain."

"The doctor will be here momentarily," he said, again in his soothing voice. "Put on this dressing gown and lie down."

"It's-it's not my room," she protested.

"No, it's mine. Nobody will dare to bother you here, not even God Himself."

Tempest wondered at this piece of blasphemy, and why he was so gentle with her. "Why…why do you believe me?"

He smoothed the hair from her brow tenderly. "Because you told me to. Because... you've never asked anything of me before. Because... I-I'm not a monster."

His voice was so uncertain Tempest cringed. "Saint, I… I'm sorry for saying such things to you. They were unforgivable. I... don't think you're a monster or a barbarian."

"Don't you?" he asked, a wry curve to his lips as he looked down at her face.

"No. A monster wouldn't have saved me," she said.

"I will always save you, Tempest," he swore. "I...have never felt this way about anyone, do you understand what I'm saying? I...want to be with you. I think I go crazy when I can't see you or talk to you." He gave a short, embarrassed laugh, half turning away from her. "When you called me a monster-and said you couldn't stand to be with me, I think I went a little crazy."

He was crazy even when he saw her or could talk to her, but his hands now were so gentle, and his voice was tender.

"Will you give this engagement a chance?" he asked, in the same uncertain voice, looking anywhere but directly at her. "I don't want it to be a sham. I want it to be real, for me, for us to have a chance. Don't say no." He suddenly advanced on her without warning and grabbed her about the shoulders. His forehead was against hers so that she felt his breath against her face, and one large hand gently cupped her face. "Please think about it."

Tempest started to speak, but in the next moment, his gentle fingers were stroking her face and lifting it up to meet his. Warm lips touched hers, soft, slow, carefully caressing her cheek before returning to her mouth. She recognized his touch, his scent. It was the same as the night of the ball at the Ferris manor-the tentative, gentle kiss.

 _Ah,_ she thought. _So it was him that night. These lips-they belonged to this man._. Against her better judgment, she began to kiss him back. He held back initially, but then, as though inflamed by her shy response, his breath grew quicker and he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth wider and allowing her access. He demanded a response and she didn't know what to do but to return it, only to be rewarded with his low groan. His tongue met hers and stroked her tongue. His hands left her face to stroke her shoulders, her arms. Then they were under the dressing gown and they had touched her bare back before she jerked out of his arms.

He looked befuddled and questioning. His hair was mussed-had she done that?-and his lips were red and glistening, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"No," Tempest said, shaking her head. "W-we can't-"

Saintignon shook his head briefly, as if to clear it. "I'm sorry-I was...carried away. I won't hurt you; you know that."

"My dress-is torn," she said, looking around. "And-and we're alone in your bedchamber."

"Let me see your back," he demanded, turning her around and forcibly taking off the dressing gown.

"No!" she shrieked, afraid that he would see the mole on her back and draw his own fevered conclusions before turning on her. And she couldn't bear that-not now, not after he had been so incredibly gentle.

But he had his way and she heard his short breaths as he fingered the torn fabric of her gown. "They-tore this from your back? Who? Who did this?" he demanded with a voice struggling for control.

"It-doesn't matter. All of them did," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She was afraid at any moment that she would break down in hysterics.

"They will pay," he breathed, and she saw that one hand on the bed next to her hip was clenched so tightly into a fist that his knuckles were white.

"I don't know how they got that drawing," she broached cautiously. "They said-Tourville did it. But I've only met him the once. Saintignon-I swear it!" It seemed imperative he believe her and she turned beseeching eyes to him.

"Dominic," he corrected, cupping her face with one large palm. "Only you-can call me by my given name."

"Dominic," she said absently, gripping his hand. "Don't listen to their lies, even if you see the drawing-please! They say-they say it's an entire sketchbook!"

"I know," he said, placing one last kiss on her temple before getting up from the bed. She instantly felt bereft of his large body, of the warmth and comfort it provided against the terrors of this household. He was all that stood between her and the people who had attacked her.

Something fell on the bed next to her. Tempest looked up to see what was unquestionably a sketchbook, and grabbed it. She flipped through the pages, her face reddening. It was all drawings of her, in varying degrees of shameless nudity, posing, primping for the artist. The expression on her drawn face made her so embarrassed she could not finish going through the book and slammed it shut.

"I've seen it already," he said when she looked up.

"B-burn it!" she said, face red. "It's not me! I don't know how he knows of the mole on my back! He's never seen me-like that! No one has!"

Saintignon's eyes sharpened and he rubbed his chin. "But Miss Stearns has seen you unclothed-hasn't she?"

Tempest didn't understand why he was changing the subject. "My-my house is very small. We take turns bathing in the back parlor. It's the only place to hold the bathtub. There are no male servants indoors!" she explained hurriedly, blushing at having to discuss this with a man. "But we have each walked in on the other...and she...she has washed my back for me. She believes in baths, you see. Matilda thinks cleanliness is next to godliness. She-told me so…urged me to bathe frequently. But what has this to do with anything?"

"Lies," Saintignon denounced calmly. "That woman is nothing but a hussy. She had her hand down my breeches as soon as we were out of the saloon."

"What!" Tempest exclaimed, turning beet-red at his words and the image they evoked. "Not Matilda! She…"

"I almost broke her hand removing it," he said. "Does she know Tourville? Never mind; that should be simple enough to prove."

Tempest's mind whirled. "I thought she knew him-I thought she was in love with him once…"

"No, she was in love with me," Saintignon said without inflexion. "She was jabbering about her Season and how I didn't give her a chance, but now that she was a woman that I should...avail myself of her...womanly attributes." He shook his head. "Never mind. It's not really for you to hear."

"Then…" Tempest broke off. She was sharply reminded of Matilda's story of a dreadful season, of falling in love hard and deep, of confessing her love and being scornfully rejected. " _You_ were the man who called her an ugly woman!"

Saintignon rubbed the side of his neck. "I don't remember her very well. I only recall a very pushy girl who followed me around town that year. She was everywhere and she _was_ ugly," he said thoughtfully.

"Then...this attack was all your fault?" Tempest said, brow clearing.

"Hey!" he exclaimed.

"You called her ugly and scorned her painfully! Do you know how hurtful that is to a young girl?" Tempest demanded, slapping him on his hard chest. "That leaves scars!"

" _You'll_ leave scars," he muttered, catching ahold of her flying hands and unbalancing the both of them so that she fell backwards onto the bed and he was above her, supporting himself on his arms. "Nobody dares to hit me but you!"

He stared at her for such a long time that Tempest blushed and tried to twist away. "You," he said, preventing her from getting up, "are the only one I allow to touch me. No one else has that right. There's no Miss Stearns, or any other woman in my eyes. Only you. There's only you."

Saintignon pressed a kiss on the side of her neck. "They can all go to the blazes," he said fervently into her ear, trailing his hand down her arm until their fingers were interlaced. He grasped her hand so forcefully it hurt and placed it on his chest. "This heart-it beats only for you," he declared, flushing in his declaration. "I believe in you; believe in _me."_


	30. Chapter 30

The rest of the night passed in a blur for Tempest, as the doctor came and tsked obligingly over her, adding his own comments as to raucous entertainment. He prescribed laudanum, which Tempest took, because every time she heard a sound, she started and feared that she would be attacked again. Saintignon left her in his room, with orders for his personal menservants to guard the door, as Lady Islington had been vomiting into a chamberpot for the better part of the last hour and was in no condition to look after herself, much less Tempest.

After that, she fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, to wake up to a maid gently calling her name.

"I'm to dress you and show you to the roof," the maid said without expression. It was only because it was Lady Islington's maid that Tempest agreed. Her things had all been transferred to her new room while she had been sleeping.

After she was made ready, she stepped from the room and started at the polite coughing that sounded next to her, but it was only Saintignon's manservant.

"I'm to show you to the ramparts," he murmured without inflection.

Tempest blinked and wondered what had happened to breakfast. In a rush, the events of the evening before rushed back to her and she said, "Where is my Lord Talleyrand? Or Lords Marchmont and Nigel?" she asked.

The valet bowed. "I will conduct you to them right away."

She followed, assuming that she would be shown to her breakfast. But he led unerringly to an older part of the estate that had not been refurbished and they made their way up a narrow stone staircase that wound upwards in a tight circle, with arrow slits for windows.

Tempest had to concentrate on the very steep stairs and didn't talk until they had emerged at the top. She was now standing at what was an older part of the estate, the relic of the castle ruins once occupying this land, the crumbling stone rampart that used to surround a castle, but now looked down at the courtyard behind the modernized house.

"There you are," Saintignon called to her from some distance ahead, the wind ruffling his hair. "Had you a nice rest?"

"Yes, thank you," Tempest said politely and frowned as she stopped in her tracks. Saintignon was standing in the middle of the lone ramparts, surrounded by ropes that were tied to old, rusted grappling hooks and fell over the side of the stone wall. "I beg your pardon; do you hear that? It sounds like... _yelling_."

"It is," Saintignon said cheerfully and motioned her closer.

Cautiously she stepped closer and saw that he gestured to the row of ropes with a smile like a satisfied cat.

"Are you fishing, my lord?" she said quizzically and stepped forward to look as he indicated.

In the next moment, she was gasping with terror. For dangling at the end of each rope was a trussed man, yelling and pleading, some trying to reach the ropes tied around their ankles, others who seemed to be praying.

"Nobody should ever lay a hand on you," Saintignon said serenely, handing her a small curved knife with jewels embedded in its hilt, like some obscene instrument of a sacrificial ritual. "Which of these men dared to strike you? Or rip the dress from your back? His punishment is for you to decide."

"Saint!" a voice called out from behind them. "My God, man, have you gone insane?"

Tempest turned to see Lord Marchmont appear at the top of the stone staircase, looking distinctly disheveled.

"Let those men go at once!" Marchmont yelled. "You shall be tried for murder, you madman!"

And that, thought Tempest in a daze afterwards, was what she had envisioned would happen to her if Saintignon had caught her. But it was not to be. All the men were let down from the ramparts none too gently, blubbering incoherent but sincere apologies to her, swearing allegiance as though she were their feudal overlord. It was yet another example of the force of nature that was Saintignon-obedient to nobody's rules but his own, afraid of no law but his, answerable to nobody but himself-and this was the man who had avowed devotion to her?

It was a touching and terrifying thought.

They left the following day, making their way back to Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble. Saintignon had her itinerary in hand and was grandly telling her his plans.

"I have made an appointment to speak with your father," he said in the carriage to Tempest, a sleeping Miss Belham, and a delighted and fully recovered Lady Islington, who Tempest noted with no little annoyance was behaving as though everything had gone according to her plans. "If all goes according to schedule-and I do not foresee any reason why they should not-we shall then proceed to my family estate," Saintignon said imperiously.

"Naturally, everything shall go swimmingly," trilled Lady Islington. "Even Mr. Makepeace isn't stoopid enough to refuse permission to a Marquis."

Saintignon gave a bark of laughter. "Not unless he's a raving lunatic! No, I'm quite certain I shall have my way." He sent a confident and satisfied smile towards Tempest that had Lady Islington heave a long romantic sigh.

Tempest smiled uneasily back. She was less convinced than Lady Islington, now fully recovered from her sudden bout of food poisoning and simpering over Saintignon. In fact, after Lady Islington had brushed off her near escape from the night before as "mere theatrics" and laughed over Saintignon's retribution against the men by dangling them feet first from the ramparts as "jolly good fun," Tempest was less than likely to trust that venerable lady's opinions.

More to the point, Tempest was inclined to disregard Saintignon's impassioned avowal as impetuousness. For had not the man, since she had first known him, behaved in a pattern of animalistic rashness, with complete indifference to either consequence or consideration of others? He had now decided, based on what, Tempest could not fathom, that she amused him…but for how long? She was unable to hazard a guess. She only knew with an innate, feminine certainty that _this_ was not love. He did not love her so much as he enjoyed the entertainment he wrought from her, but such was not the making of such an unequal relationship. He commanded her actions with offhand ease, clearly expecting her to fall in line with his wishes. He demanded respect for her and arranged her welfare with the same cavalier nonchalance, much as he did for his closest friends, the other three Horsemen. But Tempest was not fool enough to lump herself with _them_. They indulged Saintignon and abided by his wishes with the same ease of manner, but they had the excuse of long acquaintance and equal social standing-neither of which she possessed. The closest she could label her position was that of a favored pet of a mercurial monarch. History only showed how foolish one would be to gloat over such capricious status.

They continued in much the same way on the journey, with Tempest lost in her thoughts, only half listening to Saintignon talk about his plans for her-it next included a visit to his estate-which he had already ascertained was made ready for her. Her family, he said grandly, were welcome to accompany her, as they had undoubtedly never seen anything larger than Bishop Durham's castle. Lady Islington simpered and looked adoring. Once Tempest gazed at the two of them with a kind of bemusement, as though they were sitting behind a screen and she watching from the other side. Then, she saw something flicker in Miss Belham's face, as though in pity or understanding. But the next moment, the expression had gone and Miss Belham was looking as vacant and deaf as ever and Tempest told herself that she had imagined it.

They were back in Upper Cheltendon before they knew it, with Saintignon taking a perfunctory leave of her to return on the morrow.

Tempest found that Yolanda and her mother, Mrs. Corvallis, had come to call. Though she was exhausted from the events of the past few days, she invited Yolanda to come up with her. For a few moments, it felt as though the years had melted away as the girls chatted on inessential topics. It was a measure of the strength of their friendship that Yolanda seemed not at all put out by what seemed to be a stroke of luck for Tempest, nor when she saw the wardrobe given to her from Lady Islington, which were in the first stare of fashion, given that the older lady delighted in wearing an ensemble more suitable for someone half her years.

"I am now more and more convinced of your Saintignon's devotion, whatever you may say to the contrary," added Yolanda. "He is a powerful man, but such men need rely on others for status. It seems that he puts you far and away above such superficial cares."

"Does he?" Tempest replied with skepticism. "He has been spoiled and indulged from an early age. I daresay he cares nought for popular opinion no matter how much they may affect his standing, not because he cares more for me, but because all he cares for is the here and now. I cannot believe that he has given an inkling of thought to our suitability."

"You seem so determined to take him in dislike, Tempest, that I wonder you don't simply throw him over. Surely then you can find someone better suited to you."

"You forget," Tempest said with a grim smile, "that my reputation hinges on his favor. I must see this out, come what may."

Tempest had only a little time to divulge the goings-on of the scandalous Delaney party and the treacherous behavior of Matilda Stearns, even to her mother, before the following morning dawned and Mrs. Makepeace came personally to shake Tempest awake.

"Your young man is here!" Tempest heard her mother cry through a hazy fog of sleep.

"Now?" Tempest asked, sitting up in bed.

"Apparently your father has had this appointment with him this age and has never divulged this information, the dratted man!" Mrs. Makepeace said, but looking far from displeased at her husband. "He arrived this morning with his man of business and a family lawyer. It can only be good news, can it, my dear?" she said, looking worried for a moment. "We shall not survive if such as he has a legal quarrel with us…"

Tempest blinked and leaped out of bed to make a hurried toilet. In less than an hour, she was declared presentable and allowed belowstairs.

The door to Mr. Makepeace's study opened to allow the maid to carry in refreshments and Tempest dared to peek in. In no time at all, Saintignon had leaped to his feet and immediately left the room to speak with her.

"Well, lay-a-bed, you're finally awake," Saintignon said with a jaunty air that relieved her more than anything he could have said. "Come to haggle over the marriage settlements, have you?"

"No," she replied coldly, affronted to be thought a money-grubber.

But Saintignon only roared with laughter. "Though perhaps you should be inside with us. I have never heard a father drive a worse bargain for his daughter! My lawyer is almost rendered speechless, and that is saying something. But, never fear, I shall certainly do right by my little pet," he said, chucking her beneath her obstinate chin, his casual endearment underlining her worst fears.

"It is not real…" she said weakly, and then stopped. She hadn't given her consent to this engagement, but by her silence had given tacit agreement. "Do they know-of the incident in Lowesbrough?"

"Cheer up, you silly goose," he said. "I shall not hold such loose behavior against you…until we are alone, that is," he finished, dropping his voice. Then, with another grin, he had disappeared within the room again.

They did not emerge from within until two hours later, and Mr. Makepeace wore such a befuddled expression on his sweat-beaded face that Tempest felt a lurch in her stomach.

But, "Champagne!" cried Saintignon, who had prepared for this by bringing his own supply, for "I could not trust the vintage to such as you folk." There was no time at all to discuss what had occurred until later in the day after Saintignon and his men had left.

"Well?" Mrs. Makepeace demanded. "What have you promised to them? You must have not driven a hard enough bargain, Mr. Makepeace, for never has there been a more delighted bridegroom!"

"Not...not a bit of it," Mr. Makepeace said faintly, still looking rather shaken. "He...overrode every suggestion I made-"

Mrs. Makepeace gasped in horror and twitched at her skirts.

"-and exponentially added to the settlements. Tempest...will have 10,000 per annum as allowance, and a...very fine estate settled upon her on the birth of her firstborn, regardless of gender…" Mr. Makepeace looked dazed. "Do...do you think I made a bad bargain, Mother?" he asked Mrs. Makepeace.

But Mrs. Makepeace was repeating "10,000 per annum" to herself over and over again with her hands clasped.

"That is to say…this is above and beyond all the rights and properties accorded to her as the Marchioness of Talleyrand," Tempest's father continued vaguely. "Refused to discuss her dowry...said it was bound to be a pittance and that he didn't dwell on such small numbers…"

"Tempest, my dear," Mrs. Makepeace finally said, blinking hard through a swell of tears. "My darling girl, you are set for life! Never forget your parents, who sacrificed so much for you!"

"And to apply himself to Severin's welfare as well," continued a dazed Mr. Makepeace. "His tuition upon marriage, and apprenticeship or a military rank or a borough seat should he aim for political office… I can hardly credit such generosity…"

"And us, Mr. Makepeace? Has he included us in his generosity?" asked Mrs. Makepeace anxiously.

"A home with Tempest wherever she desires, or a manor house in the vicinity of his own estate," Mr. Makepeace replied faintly. Again, he wiped his sweaty forehead. "Whichever estate it may be, as he is possessed of properties all over this isle. We shall also have an allowance settled is as befitting his in laws… He said as he has hundreds of dependents that it is only fitting we-"

"I don't believe it," said Tempest flatly.

"I know!" squeaked her mother, her hands clasped together as though in prayer. "It is a miracle!"

"You mistake my meaning. I cannot trust in such generosity!" Tempest said. "Has he asked for nothing in return?"

"Only for the banns to be read immediately and to plan for a wedding posthaste…We are all invited to his family estate to meet his sister, the Countess of Wivenbrough."

And Tempest could only stare in dismay as her parents danced a wild jig around the room.

A/N: Hi readers! I'm so glad and thrilled that some of you have stayed so long and through my hiatus period. Yours words are wildly encouraging to me. Thank you and I hope I do your readership justice.


	31. Chapter 31

Had anyone told Tempest that she would leave London in the midst of the Season to visit the Marquis Talleyrand's primary country estate in preparation for her wedding, she would have accounted them to be mad. Never had she in all her fevered thoughts imagined flying as high as this: a mild curate, a bookish scholar, even a Navy captain who would have to ship out in a few weeks. Such were the extent of her hopes, for she was nothing out of the ordinary way - neither her face nor her figure was extraordinary, her dowry was a pittance set amidst the extravagance of the _ton,_ and her wardrobe did nothing to promote her meager physical charms.

But now she was inexorably on the road to one of the greatest houses in all of England, with her parents chattering nineteen to the dozen in the carriage with her until she felt her head was ready to split apart.

The only salve to her condition was the company of Yolanda, who had been prevailed to come at the last moment, as a fitting companion and most likely bridesmaid. Although they did not have the luxury of speaking in privacy, her friend's occasional sympathetic squeeze of the hand meant much to her.

The journey across England took longer than by stage, as Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace made the most of traveling under the auspice of the Marquis Talleyrand. Tempest found herself alternately ashamed of her parents and indignant on their behalf when they were afforded disbelieving condescension. All of England, Tempest thought bitterly, was a class connoisseur. They all had to take one look at her parents to know that they were at best counter-jumpers.

The difference was in demeanor, Tempest decided. Saintignon and his friends never once had to pause after an order to see that it was carried out or whether it could be afforded them. The only consideration that mattered to them was how soon it could be accomplished, preferably yesterday. Her parents, chattering nervously aloud to all and sundry, wondered verbally if so and so could be done and looked askance and engaged in random hypothetical conversational pieces with the air. Tempest could suddenly see them from the eyes of a servant, and the comparison was not pretty. Not for the first time did she think hysterically to herself that she was "aiming much too high, my girl!"

But would she not have been aiming just as high had she been with Lord Rochforte?

That was different, her mind argued incongruously. Lord Rochforte behaves like a normal person, not a madman. If she had been with him, then she would know he truly felt something for her, and not as Saintignon did, as though embarking on the next youthful lark.

And then, before she knew it, they were drawing up to an inn one night away from _Willows_.

"Tomorrow, Mr. Makepeace," chattered Mrs. Makepeace excitedly. "Tomorrow we will set foot in that hallowed place, _Willows_. Why, it is accounted one of the most beautiful estates in England for all that it is so modern. Vastly different from the _Hall_ , which you know dates back to Roman times. Did you know that King George himself made overtures to purchase the estate? _Willows_ , not the _Hall_. But of course dear Saintignon did not acquiesce or we should not be headed there now…"

Tempest let the barrage of nonsensical chatter drift over her.

"I wonder that we do not simply press forward today," Yolanda said to her under the cover of her parents' voices, "but perhaps Saintignon would like you to get the full effect of his estate in daylight. For although the hour is not late, the light is fading rapidly."

It was indeed growing dark as their carriage drew into the inn with its waiting ostlers and servants ready to receive them. As the case had been with various inns before, all had been made ready for them, and they were shown into warm and aired bedchambers, Yolanda looking far more cheered at the prospect of a hot meal than Tempest felt she herself was.

Tempest lay awake that night, wishing that Saintignon had been less generous. She would have welcomed sharing a room this night with Yolanda, whose presence would have served to calm her. Instead, she listened to the sounds of the inn as people and servants settled down to rest, as the creaks of the stairs grew more infrequent, as the sounds outside her window grew more pronounced. She pictured the dawn as an entity: time that drew her inexorably closer to her fate-oh God, had she to marry Saintignon then? She was grateful to him- _oh so grateful_ -but had she to marry him? It seemed so final-so soon. She had barely had a little time to herself to cherish the small flame that flickered inside her-all that existed in all the world of her _tendre_ for Lord Rochefort. And now she was due to meet Saintignon's sister in the morning.

His sister! She blanched at the thought. The Countess of Wivenbrough. Surely it was too much to hope for a duplicate of Lady Susanna. The sister of Saintignon indeed. The very most she could hope for was an outright rejection of their connection and for Tempest & Co. to be banished henceforth from _Willows_.

The morning could not come fast enough. As soon as it was light, Tempest rang for the maid to help her dress and she ventured downstairs with a mind to walking off her troubled night.

It turned out that _The King and Crown_ was a fairly prosperous and busy inn, and the great room was filled with people dropping in to inquire of so-and-so, breaking their fast, or engaging in early morning business. She stepped gingerly out of the way and let herself outside, wrapping her mantle close around her to ward off the early morning chill.

There was a very pretty garden in the back. Some tables had been set up and it likewise milled with a bustle of people, laughing, shaking hands, reading their post, exchanging writs-getting on with their lives, that is, and not about to be married off by overeager parents with a penchant for running up large mysterious debts.

She stood there by herself, staring across the open field and across to a stretch of forest, until the tendrils of a conversation drifted her way.

"Darling Isabelle, it's wonderful to see you here," a masculine voice said.

Tempest turned to watch as a very handsome gentleman threw away his cheroot and smiled bewitchingly at a woman whose back was to Tempest. They looked out of place in such a common setting, both in the prime of life, beautifully dressed, and the man drawling with the accents of the very upper-crust. The woman wore a dashing ensemble of emerald green with a fur-trimmed pelisse, and a matching concoction of a hat that looked too dainty and too extravagant to have sprung out of any country milliner. It was what marked her as that most elegant of creatures, with a curve of a matching fur trim that curled around and nestled against her dark curls before teasing her cheeks. Then the woman turned, and Tempest almost gasped at the beauty that was under that extravagant hat. The woman was impossibly tall and elegant, with dark eyes and cheekbones that were somehow extremely familiar. What a pair, Tempest thought enviously.

Then, "Dearest Bertram," the woman named Isabelle drawled back and her tones matched the man's crispness syllable for syllable. "I can't say the same."

"You wound me," Bertram said, holding a hand to his chest. "Was I not heartbroken when you married?"

"Your estates more so, I'm quite certain," Isabelle replied with a cold smile. "Still playing deep at the tables?"

Bertram lost his theatricity and his smile. "It's unbecoming of a woman to speak so directly, my lady."

"It's as unbecoming of a man to mortgage his estates and leave his tenants to suffer," she retorted, looking not at all nonplussed by his criticism.

He bowed stiffly. "I would bid you good day, madam, except I've no intention to be false." Then, with a marked hauteur that contrasted deeply from his opening line, he turned on his heel and left the garden.

Unable to look away at the sudden turn of events from the romantic beginning Tempest had envisioned, she could do no more than gape.

Then the woman turned full around and saw Tempest's slack-jawed expression before she could recover sufficiently to pretend ignorance of eavesdropping.

But, contrary to her elegant appearance and Tempest's expectation of a cut, the woman smiled at her. "Fortune-hunters, alas," she said airily. "I can't move a step for fear of stumbling over them."

"I-I beg your pardon?" Tempest stuttered.

The elegant woman turned her beautiful eyes on Tempest and raked her from head to toe, although her attitude was more thoughtful than offensive. "I'm beset by them, I'm afraid," she said with a sigh. "And I'm called home to rout a few more out, I think."

Tempest recovered her wits. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but you are so beautiful that I'm sure your money would mean nothing to these men."

The woman named Isabelle smiled even wider. "How kind of you to say so, my dear. Are you new to the area or passing through?"

"Er...both, I think," Tempest said uncertainly.

The woman laughed. "You must call me Isabelle. I feel a kinship to you. Mayhap it's the camaraderieship of two women sending a nasty man running off on his heels."

Tempest smiled uncertainly. "Was he nasty?"

Isabelle shivered theatrically. "The worst, my dear. _Always_ with the false compliments. But worst of all was his treatment of his tenants. You can always tell the character of a man by his estates."

"But if he has none?" Tempest asked, thinking of her brother.

"Ah. Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it? Then I suppose he had better look to improving his mind and his relationship with the divinity," Isabelle said on an offhand air. She saw Tempest's face and said, "Oh dear, do I give offense? I've no intention of it. It's what comes of living this dreaded titled life, I'm afraid."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what that's like," Tempest said, moved by the strangeness of the morning into being candid. "Nor do I especially wish to," she added stiffly.

Isabelle peered at her curiously. "You _must_ be new to the area then. Imagine anyone in this vicinity not yearning to be titled...or rather, to be Lady Talleyrand!" She laughed cynically.

Tempest did not laugh. She ought not be so indiscreet with a stranger, but the conversation struck a chord with her after her sleepless night. It struck her strange that she had not previously met such a divine creature as Isabelle in London during her Season, and that, moreover, this vision residing so near Saintignon was not after his name.

"You look deep in thought," her new companion observed. "Do tell; it intrigues me."

"Only that it appears you are familiar with Saintignon."

"Naturally," Isabelle shrugged.

"You two are well-suited to each other," Tempest said thoughtfully. There was an offhand arrogance to both that struck her now. They belonged in the same world. There was no malice to Isabelle as there had been in Elsa Arenberg-the edge of avarice and ambition. There was only arrogance and a world of weariness to both, Tempest realized, that came from always being falsely feted and courted.

Isabelle gave a startled laugh. "You _must_ be new to the area, and how amusing you are. May I know your name?"

"Tempest Makepeace, my lady," Tempest said with a curtsey.

"Ah," the other lady said with wide eyes, and there was a world of meaning in that single syllable.

And then, "You have the honor of addressing the Countess of Wivenbrough," Isabelle said.

Tempest rocked back on her heels. "My lady," she said stiffly as she digested the full load of her ladyship's previous statements before sinking into a curtsey. Routing fortune-hunters. Men without estates. Yearning to be Lady Talleyrand. The Saintignon family had descended, and her fears were coming true. She was about to be cast off the estate and banned from allying with Saintignon. Except it wasn't her worst fears, after all: it was what she wanted. Only it still rankled to be rejected and to be found wanting.

"I see," the countess was saying softly. "No, I do see."

"I must return to my party," Tempest said with another curtsey.

"Miss Makepeace, wait," the countess said, laying a restraining hand lightly on Tempest's arm and removing it as soon as Tempest turned around. "I see I've given great offense, and such was not my intent. Or rather, it would have been my intent had I known who you were before I knew who you were. Oh dear, I'm not making much sense, am I?"

Tempest shook her head slowly.

"Please, sit in the garden with me awhile," the countess said, guiding them over to an empty table.

As soon as they had sat down, a waiter came unbidden to the table and began to serve them breakfast.

"You see," the countess began as soon as they were alone. "I had heard of a Tempest Makepeace. It is not often my brother-Saint-bids me come, but come I did when I heard he was talking of his nuptials. I feared the worst-I'm no fool, you see. I love my brother as much as I am able, and one thing I do know is that he is not a lovable man-himself and not his...riches and title and property."

The countess looked anywhere but at Tempest as she talked. "We are the Saintignons, a family of renowned wealth and prestige and infamy. I myself have been courted all my life by a host of unsuitable men, some of whom used quite unscrupulous means to get me to fall in love with them and run away with them. I don't need to tell you that as Saint's senior by several years, I feared for him as much as I for his future wife. His...rage...is untenable. Should he be played false, no power in this world can save her."

Tempest's throat dried and cold shivers worked its way down her spine. "My lady," she started to say.

"No, listen, please. I became a good judge of character because I had to be. I could see at a glance that you are no fortune-hunter and that in my impetuousness, I offended you deeply with my words. Please forgive me," the countess said, reaching forward across the table to squeeze Tempest's fingers. "I am glad, I am _so glad_ that detestable Bertram was here this morning and that I had a chance to have this _tête-à-tête_ with you, for I never would have been so relieved."

"Countess," Tempest tried to cut in.

"If my brother has chosen you, I have misjudged and underestimated him indeed. And you, _you_ are the saint to have put up with him and decided to accept him-"

"My lady!" Tempest said on a higher note. "Please listen to me. I don't know what you have heard, but since we are being so candid with one another on such short acquaintance, I must-I must tell you the truth. I didn't-he… The truth of the matter is that through a very unfortunate mishap, we are stuck in this predicament. Your brother was very kind to offer me a way to save face. This engagement-oh, merciful heavens," Tempest breathed, unable to continue.

The countess's eyebrows flew up so high they nigh disappeared under her hat. " _Kind?_ My _brother_? Saintignon? Now I know you must be jesting."

"No, he-we-" In a burst of speech, Tempest explained how they came to be compromised. "So you see, it was kindness and maybe...contrition for past behavior that prompted this. I must beg your assistance out of this predicament."

The countess threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Contrition!" she repeated, wiping away tears of mirth. "Either you have converted my brother into a true human being, or you are the most humble woman in all of existence, Tempest Makepeace. Whichever the case may be, you are the only woman in the world for my brother."

"No," Tempest said in horror, shaking her head. "I can't be. There must be someone else. My lady, he is...I hesitate to speak poorly of your brother, but he has done truly monstrous things."

"Yes, I'll not deny it, and worse still, there is more that you don't know," the countess said, sobered. "Don't you see? In his entire selfish life, he has only managed to do this kind thing for one person only. Whether you like it or not, you are bound to him."

"Must I be?" Tempest cried.

The countess laughed again, light-hearted. "I have seen you and given you my seal of approval, although knowing Saint, he wouldn't dream of asking for it. I won't apologize for it either! Tempest Makepeace; I have marked you as my future sister-in-law!"


	32. Chapter 32

Tempest didn't know whether to be relieved or simply aghast with horror at the turn of events. The person who could have stepped in and negated their union had instead embraced Tempest with open arms and given her a seal of approval in the form of a sisterly kiss on the cheek.

If the Countess of Wivenbrough was equally aghast with horror at Tempest's parents, she didn't show it. Instead, with stately benignity, she introduced herself and made them feel comfortable talking of this and that until it was time for them to all proceed up to the estate.

The drive to _Willows_ was impressive, and especially so with the countess squeezed into their carriage to point out notable landmarks along the way. There was the folly that had been commissioned for King James's stay. There was the ruins of a Roman castle that was a featured historical landmark. There was the famous half-built cathedral that was abandoned when the Protestant Reformation swept across England-there had been a tremendous furor between the Catholics and the Protestants and a fire had been set in the belfry, you see. There was even the remains of a Druidish half-circle set with large stones that puzzled historians, because the shape was decidedly oval in structure, what remained of it.

Tempest nodded politely while her mind whirled behind her calm facade.

In no time at all to her fevered state, although the drive through the county had taken them a good hour, they pulled up at the great gates and saw the _Willows_ for the first time. All the occupants of the carriage were struck dumb.

The _Willows_ was a Queen Anne estate with an updated facade of Palladian grandeur and neoclassical wings elevated on either side, all of which overlooked a manicured lawn and a glittering pool that reflected its vast line of windows.

Although Tempest had prepared herself for a grand estate, she was still impressed by its beauty. It was architecture at its most brilliant. It was a mixture of building styles that could have ended very badly, but was beautiful and stately and open and bright. Where it was symmetrical, it was calming to the senses. Where it was not, it was pleasing in its whimsy. Tempest strove not to be overawed.

"This is the most beautiful house I have ever seen," Yolanda said, and even Tempest's parents were shocked into silence.

The countess kept up a light descriptive monologue as they rolled to a stop in front of the front doors, but Tempest only half-heard snippets of speech. And then the footmen let down the steps and the doors of the carriage were flung open.

A line of liveried servants stood in front of the steps as Tempest blindly groped the hand helping her out. She blinked all around and tried to withdraw her hand from the footman, but found her hand was firmly grasped.

"You didn't think you could escape from me so easily, did you?" Saintignon teased as he tugged harder on her hand.

His tone was light, but his words sent a warning bell resounding through Tempest's body. _Escape_. There was no escape from this. This was all so formal. So final.

 _Tell him_ , her mind screamed. _Tell him the truth_. Tell him she wasn't ready to be married to him. Tell him that she might be in love with someone else. Tell him before it's too late!

Oh, merciful heavens, Tempest thought.

 _Why couldn't I have realized it earlier?_ Tempest asked herself frantically. She could have confessed it all so much earlier, rather than played off her reluctance as distaste of _him_. After all, _he_ wasn't the problem; _she_ was.

It had nothing to do with how distasteful he was-as matter of fact, she had come to think quite kindly on him. Certainly he had flaws without number, but nobody could doubt his ability to be kind without measure, not after his chivalry in aiding her salvaging of her reputation, his staunch loyalty despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, and most of all, his gentleness when she had expected none. Despite the fact that she didn't feel any sort of mental connection to him-that was going a bit too far: after all, he was still quick to judge and quicker to act-she had come to understand (if not condone) his actions. He was a product of his environment, upbringing, and reflection of what should have been his peers. Instead of reining him in, they had, in essence, created this monster that had been him. But time and proximity had wrought a change that she would have heretofore been incredulous of believing. Saintignon-the monster of London society-could be tamed.

But all of that understanding was far from meaning Tempest desired an alliance with the man, much less one so intimate and permanent as marriage.

 _I've left it too late_ , Tempest thought, her mind racing.

Saintignon was looking down at her, smiling broadly. His sister, Isabelle, was exclaiming over him. Words washed over her. The sky swirled overhead. Her parents, chittering excitedly like birds fighting over seeds. Yolanda gazing at her with concern. The servants flittering in and out of the edge of her consciousness, their livery zig-zagging into one another.

And then she fainted dead away.

She woke to a deafening altercation of voices that deadened the moment she opened her eyes and then resumed its volume.

Then, "SILENCE, YOU FOOLS!" Saintignon roared in the small drawing room.

There was only a moment of silence before Isabel shouted, "You're louder than everyone combined, you idiot!"

They tussled verbally for dominance while Tempest struggled into a sitting position and her parents did a lot of arm-waving with smelling salts. Yolanda helpfully held out a glass of sherry that Tempest took with a grateful smile.

"Are you all right?" Saintignon asked with a deep line of concern etched into his brow. "Perhaps you haven't quite recovered from the Delanceys'," he suggested and his brow furrowed even more. "I was entirely too lenient with them!" he scowled and his fists clenched.

"Stop it!" Tempest said as it seemed like all the occupants of the room were about to once again start arguing.

Saintignon grinned at her. "Now I know that you've recovered, I suppose I shall let those worthless men live their puny lives."

Tempest scowled in response. "Is that not rather like calling the kettle black? _You_ were one of those _worthless men_ engaged in those perpetual decadent games."

"Now I know you have completely recovered," was all Saintignon said mildly, "if you've a mind to chastise me. But first, a restorative. Tea?"

"Saintignon," Tempest ventured, having remembered her train of thought before her fainting spell. "About these arrangements-"

He raised his eyebrows before he rose to his full height. "I don't want you to worry a thing about them," he said loftily. "We have servants for that sort of thing, even though I know the _bourgeoisie_ like to do everything themselves."

Tempest blushed furiously. "Not that!" she snapped, as Isabelle chided sharply, "Saintignon, manners!"

Saintignon turned to his sister and said, "It's true, Bella. Miss Makepeace here would do everything and wear herself to the bone. I'm simply informing her that it's all arranged."

Tempest struggled to her feet. "I need a word in private with Saintignon," she said firmly.

The countess raised her eyebrows but acquiesced with a tilt of her head, leading the way to the door and opening it in a way that directed all the other occupants to precede her outside. Even Tempest's parents did as she indicated although a quick glance at their faces told her that her mother would have dearly loved to disagree.

Tempest took a deep breath before turning to Saintignon, but the quirk of his lips made all thoughts rush straight out of her head.

"Why-why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded, stepping backwards.

He looked just as nonplussed, and high color stained his cheekbones. "I...well, why did you want to be alone with me?" he shot back.

"To talk!" she said. "Stop-looking at me like that."

He took a deep breath and frowned about the room. "Well, where would you have me look?"

"Saintignon-"

"Dominic," he corrected.

"Saintignon," she insisted. "What are these arrangements that you've made? Aren't you being rather hasty?"

"I don't believe in dilly-dallying," he said. "Not when I know what I want to accomplish."

"You speak as though this is a contest. This is-proceeding altogether too rapidly."

"You refer to the celebrations tomorrow eve?"

"What celebrations?" Tempest asked, lifting her hand to her brow. Why was it that whenever she was around this man, her brain ceased to function? If only he weren't such a force of nature, she could perhaps have a moment to consider the sanity of her actions.

"Tomorrow, we shall hold an informal dinner with several members of the county."

"I-as your guest, I hardly have anything to say as to the routine of your estate. Only, with regards to the banns being read-"

"Tempest, unless this is of supreme urgency, I must be off to discuss some urgent matters of estate. My bailiff and steward informed me this morning of some tenant riot and I simply must be present to discuss terms."

Tempest was recalled of the countess's words with regards to men who took good care of their estate. She couldn't fault him for wanting to settle estate unrest. Before she could make plans to discuss things at a later date, however, he had bowed and promised that Isabelle would take very good care of them and that they were to be as comfortable as possible, even though the estate was a hundred times larger than what they were used to.

Tempest was left feeling the usual after an encounter with Saintignon-annoyance at his direct speech, exasperation at how he had arranged everything to her comfort, and dread that she still hadn't managed to speak her mind.

They retired shortly to the bedchambers assigned them to rest before dinner. Mrs. Makepeace snuck back into Tempest's room to have a "chat," which mostly consisted of awestruck gloating and the recital of facts that she had apparently committed to memory.

"Fifty bedchambers, ten staterooms, not to mention the saloons, my dear," Mrs. Makepeace twittered, fluttering a scented lace handkerchief as big as a swaddling cloth. Since Tempest could not remember the last time her mother had taken to carrying a handkerchief, she assumed this must be a new fad of hers that the older woman had deemed "genteel behavior." At the moment, though, the handkerchief was in danger of striking Tempest across the face with every flutter.

"A guesthouse comprising of two wings" _flutter_ "and its own private stables," _flutter_ "as well as a dowager house," _flutter_ "set over the rise for privacy!" _Flutter flutter._

Tempest set her lips and yanked the handkerchief away from her mother. "Stop it! Stop waving this handkerchief!"

"But Lady Islington carries one stashed inside her turban," Mrs. Makepeace insisted, proving Tempest's theories correct.

"Well, you look like you're trying to end a war," Tempest snapped, then heaved a sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Mrs. Makepeace peered at her daughter. "What's the matter, Tempest? You don't look well at all. I would have thought you'd be happy as a lark!"

Tempest opened her mouth to speak, then closed it with another sigh, this one feeling as though it had traveled all the way from the bottom of her soles.

Mrs. Makepeace took back the handkerchief in Tempest's listless hand and stuffed it down her decolletage. She sat next to her daughter on the bed and took her hand. "You are not happy," she observed. "The marquis's comments are thoughtless, at times, but he means well. He does not offend either your father or myself."

"Yes," Tempest said.

"Is it something else that ails you, daughter? It is a bit early for the talk regarding the wedding night-"

"It isn't that!" Tempest said, blushing. She had been brought up as any normal church-going daughter and made to blush upon any mention of the "marriage bed."

"Is he cruel to you? Do you fear him?"

"No, not anymore," Tempest said honestly. That is, unless she were to break off the engagement.

Her mother looked puzzled. "Then, you must see, as do I, that this course is a most fortuitous one for you, and far beyond my wildest dreams for you," Mrs. Makepeace said slowly. "It will allow your father and me to be at peace regarding your future, for your dowry would have been a large drain on our resources. It allows us to repay much of the debt and goodwill we have owed around the county this decade and more. It also allows your brother to go to school, where he can perhaps earn a place as a curate on someone's estate-a far more desirable turn of affairs than to be shipped off to sea where we couldn't even afford to apprentice him, where he would have to start off as the lowest seaman. That this lofty goal is now within reach is nothing to be sneered at-now that he has the connections to make this ambition a reality."

Tempest swallowed down her protests, but one bubbled free to the top. "What if...what if your heart wishes to follow another-another path?" she whispered.

Mrs. Makepeace first opened her mouth to issue a quick retort and then closed it again. When she spoke, it was with insightful intuition. "Unless the other path has made promises-concrete promises, then it is folly to wish for more," she said calmly. "Unless the other path has also proven himself- _itself_ , that is, to be one of wisdom and character and a dedication to your welfare instead of pretty words and empty sideway glances, it is folly to pin your future on such transient hopes."

Tempest didn't look at her mother as she said in a low voice, "Yes, mama."

Mrs. Makepeace rose from the bed. "I don't wish to make this decision for you, daughter," she said not unkindly. "And know that our debts mean but nothing to us in the light of your future, but I hope to have also raised a daughter who knows her duty and not to whistle her future down the wind."

"Yes, mama," Tempest said again, not raising her head.

"There," Mrs. Makepeace said, relenting. "Now I'll leave you to rest before the evening bell. My, the South Wing has simply exquisite views even in winter, does it not? How this must look in summer! This bedchamber, for example, has views of the maze garden and the wading pool, and I believe it is cleverly situated so that it is blocked from the worst of the northerly winds. Such design," she admired, before taking out her handkerchief and quitting the room with a flutter.

Tempest remained on her bed, unmoving, for much of the next hour.


	33. Chapter 33

It was a Tempest with dark eyes that appeared that evening to an informal dinner - consisting of all the current occupants of the great estate and a "quick" dinner, which meant they dined in the Small Dining Room with a table set for twelve and three removes.

Lady Wivenbrough, the highest ranking lady, presided over the table. There was also Mrs. Brougham and her companion; the brothers Samuel and Daniel Creevey, ages sixteen and twenty; Major Stanton, his wife, and Major Stanton's sister, Emily. Mrs. Brougham was one of Saintignon's elderly dependent, the young brothers Samuel and Daniel his wards, and nobody knew the exact connection of Major Stanton & company (for he had three children dining in the nursery) to the Saintignon family. From Mrs. Brougham's frostiness towards them, it appeared that they had come for a dinner party a very long time ago and had simply continued to stay, thinking, quite correctly, that they would remain unnoticed in such a large mansion.

All, however, took this opportunity to celebrate Saintignon's upcoming nuptials, and wine flowed freely at the table. Tempest began to develop a very bad headache.

"Tempest," Yolanda whispered. As it was an informal dinner, they were seated willy-nilly around the table, without regard for status and gender, as two women would usually be seated separately.

Tempest turned to look at Yolanda with bleary eyes.

Yolanda inhaled upon seeing Tempest's face. "You look horrible," she breathed. "Are you quite all right?"

"Just a headache," Tempest evaded with a weak smile.

"Make your excuses," Yolanda prodded. "Go on, do it! You'll be lady of the manor soon enough!"

Luckily for Tempest, the party was in such high spirits due to the following wine to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of the absent lord of the manor. After dinner, Mrs. Brougham's companion played the piano in the drawing room as Major Stanton and his wife performed very lively and expert _entrechats_ to the inebriated whistles from the men. The occupants of the drawing room were so engaged in their festivity that Tempest was able to beg exhaustion and retire to her bedchamber. In less than fifteen minutes, a knock sounded on her door, and Tempest opened the door to a concerned Yolanda.

"You look completely spent!" Yolanda said in a hushed voice as she closed the door behind her. "I haven't had a chance to speak to you since we left the inn. What has happened since that time?"

Tempest covered her face with her hands. "I can't go through with this, Yolanda!" she said on a deep groan.

"You mean marriage," Yolanda said, settling herself in the settee.

"Yes, of course I mean this marriage!"

"I'm only wondering," Yolanda said cautiously. "Because you've said so before and yet here we are."

"I don't mean to snap at you," Tempest said with contrition. "Only look at this mess I've managed to land myself. What can I do about it all?"

"Well," Yolanda said slowly. "I think you could have spoken to him back home. Or written him a letter. Or stopped him before he left on his business."

Tempest didn't reply, but fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Yes, yes, and yes. Squandered opportunities, all. And now time was counting down faster than an unspooling reel of thread that had been dropped downhill. She hadn't expected Saintignon to be out for the entire evening, and for him to be completely absent from the county when she asked the butler after his whereabouts. She should have made more of their afternoon in the parlor.

"Only I think you have secretly begun to care for him," Yolanda added.

Tempest whipped her head around to stare at Yolanda.

"Well, why not?" Yolanda said reasonably. "He is a personable person now that he has stopped doing all those heinous things you hated. And it has made your parents so happy."

"It isn't love," Tempest protested.

"No," Yolanda agreed. "But-now, don't go off on me, Tempest, because I know I'm nowhere near to getting married-but surely there are different kinds of love. And Lord Talleyrand certainly cares for you very much."

" _Now_ he does. What of the future?"

"What can any of us say about the future?" Yolanda asked, shrugging. "And they do say that love can grow in a marriage. And he has demonstrated his devotion to you very clearly."

Tempest didn't respond.

"I think," Yolanda said hesitantly. "I think that you are a very idealistic person."

"I?" Tempest said, jerking her face towards her friend.

"Yes, you. I know that we're all supposed to be practical Cheltendon stock, but you are so full of dreams and ideals. Don't look at me like that, Tempest. Why else have you defended all of us against bullies this age? Why else do you espouse theories that others deem radical? Why else do you hold on to these dreams of a white knight when a flawed, but _very_ eligible man stands in front of you, offering his name and protection? I love you dearly, as well as all your idealism. But love isn't romance built of a series of secret glances and longing, or serves to exist only when the moment is right, or even only for the beautiful and perfect. It isn't wishing madly for just a glimpse of his face. True love is something that takes work, hard work."

"How came you by this wisdom?" Tempest asked, smiling ruefully at her friend.

"Because I've felt the _tendre_ every young girl feels, I suppose," Yolanda said with a shrug. "And I've also felt it go away- _poof!_ -as if it never existed. You just wake up one morning and the longing and the melancholy and the dreaming disappear. Therefore,I know it's not real. But it is surprisingly addictive," she added thoughtfully.

"Were that I could be as wise as you," Tempest said, affection for her younger friend flooding her.

"Not wise at all. Only resigned to my fate. Look you here. My parents won't send me to London, or Bath, or any of those grand cities for a Season. I'll make my debut in Cheltendon and marry a nice local man. I don't suppose I'll be madly in love with him, but if he is kindly and gentle, I'll have no cause for complaint, now do I?"

"Would I that my parents didn't aim so high for me," mourned Tempest.

"Pish-tosh, Tempest! They have sacrificed immensely for you! And here you are, with a man who is kindly to you and appears very much devoted to you and sincere in his promises. How can you not appreciate that much, at the very least?"

"You make me seem very ungrateful indeed," Tempest said, looking at the ceiling again.

"No...only you must feel for this other man very deeply."

"It is...not reciprocated," Tempest said in a very soft voice.

"Ah. Well, I gathered not," Yolanda said tactfully. "Do you plan to tell him, this other man?"

"No! At least, I don't know how I can. I have no inkling where he is now."

"Could not you write to him?"

Tempest considered where Rochefort was, quite possibly on a ship sailing far, far away. "No."

"Will you see him again?"

Tempest wondered if her life as Saintignon's wife would be spent mourning for a love that could have been, gazing sadly after Lord Rochefort as they passed in ballrooms. But perhaps he would be long gone, aiding Lady Susanna on her charitable pursuits. "Perhaps not," she murmured.

"It seems then that the opportunity has passed," Yolanda said, shrugging a shoulder. "Would you spend the rest of your life waiting for him to appear again?" she demanded to know. "While life marches unerringly on?"

When Tempest didn't reply immediately, Yolanda said, "There, I've done enough scolding for tonight. And when I came here to cheer you up too! Only, do you suppose the reason you don't feel kindly for Lord Talleyrand is because you prefer widows and orphans?"

"I beg your pardon?" Tempest asked, confused.

"You know. The downtrodden. The poor-spirited. You always have such a big heart for the weak, Tempest, and defend them to the end. And heaven knows Lord Talleyrand is not weak or needing of your pity. In fact, he seems to delight in fighting your battles for you."

Tempest blew out the air through her nose in a very unladylike manner.

Yolanda reached over and covered Tempest's hand with her own. "Dearest, whatever the case may be, I wish for you all the good things of the world!"

"And I you," Tempest said. "It has truly been such a comfort to have you near. I must see what I can do to marry you off to a gentleman who lives exceedingly close by. You would make some lucky man a very good wife someday, if only I could find someone who deserved you," Tempest said.

"Whoever he is, I hope he realizes his good fortune!" Yolanda replied blithely.

After Yolanda had retired to her own room, Tempest rang for the maid to prepare her for bed. Then she lay awake thinking of choices, the choices one was given in life and the choices one made for oneself.

She thought of Yolanda, whose life was limited to the choices given her by her parents and who seemed oddly content with her lot in life. It seemed that were Yolanda offered the choice, she would not choose much differently. Tempest thought of Saintignon, whose choices consisted of the whole world on a platter, but who sought to also make his own choices and decisions regardless of others' opinions. His words that day on the steps of the Ferris' manor so long ago now revealed that if life didn't go according to his plan, he was willing to move heaven and earth to see it happen. A man who chose to live without regret, one who chose not to be dictated by others' choices for him, someone who wasn't simply the mindless beast she had labeled him but a person who steadfastly pursued his goals. Put this way, it now seemed strangely admirable if heedless of polite civilization.

Her friend, Yolanda, was the exact opposite of Saintignon in stance and choices, but both chose to stand by the choices they made with no regrets and no second thoughts.

She thought next of Lord Rochefort, who had choices made for him, who seemed likely to pine away for the rest of his life until Tempest yelled at him to wake up out of limbo. He had then crossed that insurmountable barrier of his own character to grasp what would not have been his to grasp.

And what of herself? She thought of her parents, who had sacrificed much so that their only daughter could marry well-a reckless gamble, given that daughter was little blessed in the way of looks or social niceties.

The comparison seemed funny now, ironic, even, that she, who told Rochforte to be brave and make his own destiny, would be so tied down to the choices of her parents, of Saintignon, of society's approval. She, who considered herself above the materialistic slavery of London society, was less free than any of them. She had not made one choice for herself, and look where she had ended. All she did, she realized, was to urge others to be brave, to stand up for others. But was she brave on her own behalf? It appeared not.

She and Lord Rocheforte were two of a kind, bound by others' choices, unwilling to settle for less, and unwilling to reach for their goals. Tempest, alone in the dark, gave a bitter laugh as she contemplated life's little ironies.

And yet, even Lord Rocheforte had left her behind. He had gone after his own dreams, the dreams of a lifetime, and left her behind. In the metaphorical world split between the doers and the lamenters, it seemed she was alone in the dark realm of the latter.

She groaned, massaging her temples between her fingers. Despite the repeated mantra that Saintignon was nowhere as bad as she had initially thought him (persistence and steadfastness were generally considered positive traits) and that Rocheforte was nowhere as good as she had dreamily labeled him (inability to speak one's mind and willingness to pursue one's goals were the underpinnings of cowardice, after all), she considered the trite phrase that the heart wants what the heart wants.

Because while all three statements should have been mutually exclusive, they also coexisted in her reality to wreak havoc with any ability to reach a rational decision. The rational decision being, of course, Saintignon, the willing, available, not quite as bad as all that, suitor; not Rocheforte, the absent, aloof, disinterested sometime friend.

Life had been decidedly simple when no men and no decisions loomed on her horizon.

On her second night in the Lake District, her first night in the South Wing of the famous primary residence of the twelfth Marquis Talleyrand, Viscount d'Chamborne, Baron de Vere, etc., etc., Tempest lay awake, wallowing in self-recriminations until morning.

She was not to know that second chances were not the missed opportunities of a lifetime, and that the morrow would be the beginning of this knowledge.

A/N: This was a fun chapter to get out. Lots of self-reflection and insight into the characters that I felt were intrinsic to good character development. Tempest, as many people had noted, is pretty immature, as are all girls at a certain point in life. She's pretty impetuous too, but in my version, at least, she gets tempered with time and realizes that love isn't like in the books. Ha! Oh, the irony of that statement.

I really hope that this fanfic can be tied up sometime within this year or the midst of the next. At the very least, this is progressing much faster than my other one, which seems almost dead in the water :(. As always, much thanks for all the lovely reviews. I recently started to really ship Dramione. If any of you are interested, I have a one-shot posted! -shameless advertising


	34. Chapter 34

She awoke on the morning of the county dinner looking even worse for wear. The maid who came into her bedchamber early in the morning to light the dying fire and to draw the drapes, looked taken aback upon her first look at Saintignon's special guest. What conclusions she drew, Tempest could not hazard a guess. Her head was feeling so fuzzy that she didn't much care.

At first, Tempest sat by herself, groggily contemplating whether she should request a tray in her room and hide her hideous face from the rest of the company. This took the better part for an hour until her brain unclogged sufficiently and began to wound its way back to the treacherous and depressing thoughts of the sleepless night before.

But the curtains were drawn, and bright, cheerful sunlight spilled cross-wise on the bed, and Tempest finally had enough of her own cyclical thoughts. She had made her bed; now she would have to lie in it. Saintignon was proving to be an indulgent fiance, with every inclination of being kind to her family. What else could she possibly hope for?

Closing her mind to any rhetorical responses, Tempest rang for the lady's maid, who had obviously been in discussion with the housemaid, because she showed up bearing cucumber compresses for Tempest's swollen eyes and blotchy face, and proceeded to make Tempest presentable for the day.

At home in Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, Tempest had never had the luxury of her own lady's maid. Mary served as the housemaid, kitchen maid, and lady's maid-if pressed into service. The best thing anyone could say about her prowess in the latter capacity was that she did not burn off your scalp with a hot iron. As to whether she could achieve any sort of beautiful coiffure, the less said, the better. Hair seemed always to be worse off than before Mary started in on it, and so Tempest was used to twisting her hair up into a simple bun, letting tendrils fall out where they would until she could be at liberty to fix her hairdo.

Lady Islington, on the other hand, had dug into her capacious coffers to retain a lady's maid who was equally aged and enamored with the same elaborate styles as that grand lady. The result, if Tempest had the fortune of getting her services before they left the house, was a powdered, rouged, and equally bedecked Tempest that she found as mortifying as if she had stepped outdoors in her washing clothes.

But the Saintignon household possessed upwards of a few hundred inside servants, and the lady's maid was a coveted position amongst housemaids, who pored over fashion plates at the dressmaker's and studied various trends as religiously as any student in order to one day better themselves. They had drawn lots to tend to the lady who was to be the new mistress of the manor, and each was to have a day with her.

Betty was up today, and she wove Tempest's hair into a simple but very becoming hairstyle, with fanciful braids up one side, and curls gathered on the other side, with a sugar and water mixture to "set" to 'do. Tempest also found that the dress laid out for her today-another of Lady Islington's hand-me-downs of light blue stripes with a line of light green flowery trim-had undergone a transformation the night before and was now stripped of all excessive flounces and jarring colors, the bodice taken in from Lady Islington's formidable bosom, and the decolletage filled in with carefully sewn ribbons to make it seem like it was the dressmaker's original design. The puffed sleeves had been taken in to achieve a more streamlined silhouette, and the ruffed collar (added to disguise Lady Islington's ageing neck) removed.

Tempest could hardly recognize herself in the mirror, and she was reluctantly impressed with the work of a good lady's maid, for that was what Betty was proving to be. Her eyes, after judicious application of chilled spoons and a soothing mask of cucumber juice, was now restored to, if not doe-like magnificence, then to presentable state. The rest of her face had similarly undergone a different type of invigorating wash of rose water and Gowland's lotion and topped off with mixture of the maid's own invention. The result was a shining complexion with naturally rosy cheeks (from a vigorous pinching) with dew-brightened eyes (also from the vigorous pinching) that was not unbecoming in the least. Tempest could honestly say that she had seldom looked better after consecutive sleepless nights. The whole process had taken not more than three hours.

Although Tempest had little opportunity in her short life to be vain, she found that looking her best did indeed invigorate her spirits; she was in a much better frame of mind than when she had left Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble. After praising Betty's work with effusive words that the maid took down to the servants' quarters to repeat with relish, she was ready to face the household.

She found her way, by asking various footmen, to the breakfast room, which apparently was a room specifically for breaking fast in this large estate. It was a beautiful room, with two adjacent walls of tall windows and a glass-paneled double door that opened up to the garden steps, set in a direction that took advantage of the morning light.

Her parents were there ahead of her, eating through the hearty spread with as much gusto as though they had never spent half the night roistering with strangers in a strange new house.

"My dear!" her mother brightened upon seeing Tempest and waved her over. Tempest saw with some relief that the room was deserted but for them and the footmen standing unobtrusively in the shadows.

"Is no one else up?" Tempest asked, looking at the sideboards groaning under the weight of food prepared, seemingly, for the three of them. Breakfast was served _à la russe_ , much as it had been in London in the younger generation. Lady Islington, however, kept to the old ways.

"Lady Wivenbrough is breakfasting in her rooms," her father volunteered. "And Major Stanton and his family always walk about the estate before breakfast. Mrs. Brougham never comes down before three."

"Ah," she said, and went over to the sideboards. Immediately a footman stepped forward with a plate ready to assist her. After an awkward few moments where Tempest wasn't sure whether she wanted to wrest the plate away from the servant or how to direct him to serve her which portions of food, Tempest finally was seated once again at the table. It was yet another few minutes of social embarrassment, with the footman pushing the chair under her and Tempest moving the chair herself, which resulted in her hem catching under a chair leg.

Tempest thanked him, he bowed, and she turned with relief to her food while he tried not to picture his dismissal from Saintignon's employ at failing such simple tasks for the future marchioness, as she was rumored to be.

"The saloons are being aired and decorated in preparation for tonight's dinner," her mother said. "Such a mountain of flowers have been brought in from the conservatory. There are two, you know, one for flowers of the warmer climes and the other for cooler climes. That is why they are able to have such unseasonable fruits as well! These are pineapples, my dear. Pineapples! How extraordinary it is to have such fruit year round. You must try some."

Tempest tried to wave away her mother's hand, which had speared some of the fruit and was beckoning her with it. "Later, mama," she said with a pointed edge, glancing sideways at the servants standing against the wall.

Mrs. Makepeace saw her sideways glance and raised her voice. "Of course, _we_ are no strangers to unseasonable fruits, are we, my dear Mr. Makepeace? No, indeed not! We have been known to partake of a juicy orange or two whenever we felt the inclination. And the bishop, God love him, is particularly gracious to us and sends us fruits of his own orchards. Therefore, _nobody_ should be _assuming_ that the Makepeaces are unacquainted with fine dining."

This fine speech was lost on her husband as, "What oranges?" Mr. Makepeace asked, frowning quizzically. "I can't remember the last time I had an orange."

" _You_ remember, Mr. Makepeace. It was just last week, la! Oh we had oranges to eat our fill."

Tempest, knowing that Mrs. Makepeace was putting on a specious show for the servants (as they had not had oranges since the last time the whole family had been invited over to the Bishop Palace), tried in vain to stop the conversation in its tracks.

"I don't remember-"

" _Yes_ you do," insisted Mrs. Makepeace, eyes darting theatrically around the room, chin nodding towards the servants in a very stagey manner. " _Remember_?"

"No, I don't, Mrs. Makepeace, and whatever are you about, twitching and winking in that way? Fair gives a fellow the heeby-jeebies."

"I am _not_!" shrieked Mrs. Makepeace in reply, volume climbing.

Before Tempest could surreptitiously motion for her parents to stop squabbling, a footman stepped forward and bowed. "Begging your pardon, sir, but the marquis's orange orchards met with a blight last winter and has not yet recovered. However, if sir wishes to partake of oranges-"

Mrs. Makepeace startled the company by braying with loud laughter. "Har-har-har, my good man! No, no, that won't be necessary at all. We can _partake_ of other delicacies that are here. Yes, my good man, fetch me another plate of these pineapples. Tempest, dear, you must try some."

"Good morning," Yolanda said, cutting into the fray and looking around uncertainly. "Am I late?"

"No, we are the only ones here for breakfast," Tempest replied, puzzling Yolanda with a relieved smile so big it threatened to stretch from ear to ear.

"Oh, good. I wasn't certain-" Yolanda cut off when the footman moved toward to seat her. Aware that the Cummings were similarly unused to servants doing one's every bidding, Tempest tried to smile bracingly at her friend. "I should, er-get-" Yolanda got up again, the footman stepped forward to move her chair back, Mr. Makepeace belatedly stood. Surprised, Yolanda sat, the footman gently pushed the chair underneath her, Mr. Makepeace also sat. Yolanda looked at the sideboards and then desperately at Tempest, before leaping up once again to her feet; the footman and Mr. Makepeace followed suit.

Tempest decided to take matters into her own hands. "A small selection of the breads and jellies, please," she directed the footman, and pressed Yolanda into sitting down again.

"I slept so much better here than the inn," confessed Yolanda once she had accepted a plate from the footman. "The view from my room is divine. I can see the coast from my window."

"Are we so close to the coast?" Tempest asked. "Perhaps if the weather is fine, we can take a carriage or walk…"

"No, Tempest!" shrieked Mrs. Makepeace. "Not when there's dinner tonight for the marquis's friends! You must spend all day resting so that you can look your best."

Tempest wasn't about to stay in her room all day waiting for evening, nor was she going to engage in verbal fisticuffs with her mother in front of four footmen. She had determined on the walk through the mansion this morning that she would make the very most of this trip, and see as much of this part of England as she could, and so she nodded mildly and changed the subject, all the while eating as fast as she could before excusing herself from the table.

She almost changed her mind when she saw Yolanda's pleading eyes. With an unladylike jerk of her head, she motioned Yolanda to come with her. Yolanda stood and curtseyed to her parents, hurrying out after Tempest with only one forlorn look at her uneaten plate.

"Oh, Tempest, how could you leave me behind?" Yolanda said reproachfully as they made their way through the hallway towards the double doors leading to the back. "And my breakfast! All that dancing to and fro with the footman, all for naught. What a waste, Tempest, really!"

"I'll have Betty make a hamper for us, if you are going to fly up in the boughs about it!" Tempest said. "Honestly, did you want to stay behind and listen to my parents drone on and on about how privileged our life was in Cheltendon?"

"No," Yolanda said immediately. "Not that I don't love your parents, Tempest, but-"

Tempest laughed at her. "You don't have to make excuses to me, dearest. I just want to walk and walk off my troubles. You see, I've become reconciled."

Yolanda perked up. "To...marriage?"

"Yes, why not! After all, as everyone tells me, there are infinitely worse things than being married to the richest man in the British Isles."

"I'm glad to see that you've finally seen reason! Although those footmen will take some getting used to," said Yolanda.

"Hah! Yes-but I shall bar them from the breakfast rooms from now on. I shall leap up and serve myself. You'll see-I shall be the most unconventional marchioness ever to grace these halls."

The two girls spent a companionable morning walking about the grounds, but the coast proved too far for their easy amble, and so they came back to a transformed house. Many of the occupants were lying in for luncheon, and the countess had specifically sent a note to Tempest's rooms to inform her that she was at liberty to stay in her chambers in lieu of dining belowstairs.

Thus it was that the two girls were able to spend a giggly afternoon together until it was time for their toilette. Tempest was amazed (but no longer surprised) to find her only suitable white muslin transformed with the addition of a gold tissue lining and a mint green lace-trimmed sash, borrowed, said Betty, from one of her other overly adorned hand-me-downs. Yolanda claimed that one of her dresses had also been subtly changed by a seam here and there through the expert hands of another maid named Anna.

After Betty's administrations, Tempest was once again transfigured. If she had been satisfied with her appearance earlier in the day, she was awestruck by it now. The effect of Betty's expert care coupled with the flattering glow of candlelight showed a beauty reflecting back at her. Her tresses had been woven with small white blossoms and beads; her gloves were shining white and artistically wrinkled at the elbows; her dresses fell with a expertly gathered pleat in the front and the sides taken in to make the most of her figure. Tempest could not have asked for a better lady's maid in all Christendom.

There was a flurry of excitement churning inside her. Tonight would be the first night in which she actively appeared beside Saintignon and acknowledged the next step in her life. Yes, she was doing the right thing, she told herself. For her parents, for her brother, maybe for Yolanda if she could better her marital chances, and, dare she hope, for Saintignon himself, as the countess had herself professed? It sounded much too good to be true, but with all those voices around her, who was she to say them nay?

Then it was time for Tempest to go downstairs.


	35. Chapter 35

What the Saintignons claimed to be a small dinner party actually was an informal dinner upwards of fifty people. The Great Dining Hall was utilized, and it was a banqueting situation that could have been used by Moses in the Exodus.

The saloons on the ground level were opened up to receive the guests, who milled around examining over the riches decorating each other. Tempest felt like the veriest fraud, and from the expression on Yolanda's face, she was not alone. It was a glittering array, and Tempest was glad of the restrictions on debutante dress, as it afforded her a small measure of protection and excuse. She had to remind herself that she had nothing to excuse herself _for_ , but it was tenuous comfort when one matron showed up in a carriage with no less than four footmen attending her and jewels haphazardly adorning her dress as though someone had thrown them at her. It further was even more mortifying when she overheard two other ladies whispering, "Paste, my dear. Nothing of interest." Tempest had not had the fortune to come across such large jewels as to be able to tell at a glance what was real and what wasn't, and the way the matron's outfit was dismissed underlined another division between her and this most privileged sect.

It should have been a happy event for Tempest that the majority of the guests were not more than forty years of age. Yet it wasn't, for the main reason that it reminded her so much of London society, although she recognized nobody. Surprisingly, though, the way she was treated was much different from how she had been treated there. She was even approached by several young men, who came forward to beg an introduction.

One was Lord Walbrey, a good-looking man in his thirties, who seemed earnest and more interested in discussing the state of the nation. It surprised and pleased her, since she had despaired of finding company whose first words did not comprise of materialism. On the other hand, Tempest was distressed to find that, despite her disdain of the frivolities of London society, she was far too ignorant to converse intelligently on political events.

"Walbrey, are you boring my fiancée with your political views again?" drawled a voice and Tempest was not surprised to find Saintignon at her side.

Lord Walbrey looked very surprised at this news and Tempest also could not help being annoyed that Saintignon had introduced this topic in the middle of their conversation. Without laying a finger on her person, Saintignon managed to give the impression that she was his property and his eyes were narrowed in a way that antagonized Tempest to no end.

"Not at all, _my lord_ ," Tempest said in a voice like ice. "Lord Walbrey was speaking of the atrocious need for supplies in Spain, where our troops are dying, not from waging war with the enemy but disease."

"A most appropriate topic with which to regale the gentler sex," said Saintignon in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

"The gentler sex understands Lord Walbrey's altruistic motives and will do her best in spreading the word so that more supplies can be sent," bit out Tempest, who was now well on the way to full-fledged anger.

Lord Walbrey looked from one to the other in some dismay. "I say, jolly good. Miss Makepeace, a most delightful conversation-er, not that delightful," he tacked on hastily seeing the storm clouds on Saintignon's brow. "Saintignon, good of you to invite me. I see I'm wanted elsewhere. I beg your pardon." And then he beat a fast retreat.

Saintignon and Tempest watched his retreating figure with very different expressions. Saintignon turned to Tempest with a smirk on his face. "Well, your would-be suitor was certainly quick to run off."

Tempest pursed her lips to control the flood of words itching to come out to do battle. "Lord Walbrey was _not_ my suitor, and he is a very pleasant, good-hearted man, with his mind on the higher things of life."

Saintignon lost his smile in an instant. "That mincepot of a man?"

"He was _not_ a mincepot, and we were having a very interesting conversation about his views on the state of the union, particularly on how the Peninsular War is progressing."

"You have no need to discuss such matters with another man," Saintignon said haughtily. "You have only to ask _me_ , and I shall tell you my opinions on everything concerned."

Tempest could feel her fingers clenching into a fist and her earlier good intentions flying out the nearest window. "It is _my_ opinion that Lord Walbrey had very educated views, and _my_ opinion that I desired to hear more. _You_ are not involved in this decision!"

"As your future husband, I shall be involved in every decision that pertains to your life!" Saintignon returned with just as much fire.

"Am I to have no say as to anything?" Tempest asked, aghast with this implication.

"Do not be so bird-witted, my dear," he drawled. "You certainly have the right instincts as to your appearance, a state of which I certainly had my doubts before tonight. However, you have acquitted yourself and look exceedingly lovely-"

Tempest's small surge of girlish glee at this dissolved at his next comment:

"But imagine my displeasure when I find that such ensemble was for the purpose of enticing feeble-minded rattleplates like Walbrey! Faugh! Control yourself, woman," he said through gritted teeth.

"I spoke to the man for-but a few minutes! What right have you to castigate my behavior? Are you my keeper?"

"Not a few minutes, my lady-although I mean that title in the loosest of meanings," he said so silkily his insult initially escaped Tempest. "You conversed with him for nigh _three quarters of an hour_. And yes, I certainly do plan on becoming your keeper, and as such, I would advise you to keep your dallying to a minimum."

"This is-this is _mad_!" Tempest breathed. " _You_ are mad-"

"How insightful of you to notice," he said, his teeth baring. "But I shall contain my anger for now."

"No-not _angry_ ," Tempest cut in. " _Delusional._ You are insane, my lord, and so I pray leave to inform you. No one looking on would question the integrity of either Lord Walbrey or myself."

"That is because only I understand how little indiscretions start," he said with a cynical twist of his lips. "And you shall do well to remember that!"

"Brother," Countess Wivenbrough cut in with a hand on his arm. "We have guests who are watching." She had a polite smile on her face that didn't move as she spoke to them. "Please do not give them more fodder for gossip."

"I am so sorry, Lady Wivenbrough," Tempest apologized immediately. "This is-certainly not the place for our little squabbles." It was hardly a _little_ squabble, considering her future husband was claiming the right to manage every aspect of her life.

Saintignon raised an imperious eyebrow at his sister. "This is _my_ home," he said haughtily. "Am I not lord and master of all I survey?"

"Only inasmuch as you command the respect of your peers," the countess retorted. "And you are failing at that."

"Peers!" he snorted. "Who is responsible for inviting this group of riffraff, my lady? Was it you who invited that slowtop, Walbrey?"

The countess rolled her eyes at Tempest. "Please do not tell me that you were jealous of a _leetle_ conversation between Miss Makepeace and him? That would be quite, _quite_ silly of you, Saint."

Saintignon didn't respond, and the countess winked at Tempest behind his back. "Come, we have host duties, or had you forgot?"

Tempest watched as Saintignon was led away with something close to admiration. Would that she could manage Saintignon half as well as his sister did. But oh, how he did antagonize her to no end! And who could fault her for seeing pitfalls in every corner when he did his utmost to upset her? Surely his husbandly demands were far too excessive to be borne!

And yet, Tempest knew there were worse fates. There were women who disappeared from polite society because of their cruel husbands. English law still awarded no property to women, no seats in Parliament, no voice except the occasional trivial article on fashion or household affairs. There were men who beat their wives, men who filled the countryside with their illegitimate offspring, men who gambled to excess and left their families to wither away in debt. And then, there were the most unsavory tales that were whispered, tales that were only mysteries to the innocent Tempest, tales that involved the French pox, man-milliners, and filly-hoppers-terms that seemed innocuous but carried with it a dark taint. Unfortunately, only history could show what fate awaited each woman, and Tempest was similarly in the dark as to the type of husband Saintignon would prove to be.

The joy with which she had started this evening had worn away, and she was riddled with anxiety as she was led into dinner by an ancient rector on Saintignon's estate, who Tempest guessed to be nearing his eighth decade. She had only one guess as to who could have arranged such a dinner companion and a glance towards the head of the table at a triumphant Saintignon revealed that she was correct. To punish him and enliven a long dinner, Tempest did her level best in engaging the septuagenarian in conversation. The rector, Mr. Henley, despite his horrible breath, was a lively bachelor with quite tall tales to tell, and Tempest soon found herself laughing at his stories. After the third remove, she glanced towards the head of the table and was incredulous to find that Saintignon's lips were white with suppressed fury. She snorted with exasperation. What _now_ ailed the man?

The ladies, led by the highest ranking lady present, Duchess of Pembury, left the men to their port and cigars and gathered in the ordained Great Saloon, which featured an entire wall of windows, two fireplaces, a piano and various other instruments, no less than six card tables, and enough chairs to seat a small country. Yolanda had been pulled away by the rector's niece, and Countess Wivenbrough tugged Tempest towards a couple of chairs.

"I must apologize on Saintignon's behalf," the countess said.

Tempest considered the countess curiously and then decided to speak her mind. "My lady, how is it you, the daughter of a duke, are apologizing to me for his behavior? By right, you should be happy that we are quarreling like cats and dogs."

The countess unfolded her fan and covered the bottom half of her face with them. "That is because I pray that you continue to favor Saint, you see. There is nobody with the fortitude to quarrel with him, and that is what he so dearly needs."

"I should think many have quarrel with him," Tempest returned pertly. "Only they are too afraid to speak."

"Precisely! And that is why you shall be the making of him."

"My lady, I'm quite certain that he is not as enamored as you think," Tempest argued in a more subdued and respectful tone. "And I'm equally certain that this engagement shall not play out. A man who is...enamored-is indulgent, kind, and gentle. Saintignon is none of these things. He is rude, boorish, angered by every little thing I do or say! In short, I cannot be convinced of his dedication to this match as you appear to be."

The countess looked like she wanted to laugh. "You truly are a treasure, my dear. Did you not note his jealousy?"

Tempest blinked. "Jealousy?"

"Surely you did not think Saintignon insults every man who...oh dear. I suppose he _does_. My brother actually has a very amiable relationship with Walbrey, prior to his encounter with you. He was seething with jealousy, you see, and even halfway across the room, I could see he was about to explode."

"This does not bode well for any relationship," said Tempest with some alarm. "Especially since I did but speak to the man on affairs of war _._ "

"How can I convince you?" said the countess. "It is only that Saintignon _never_ feels jealousy. He feels anger, undoubtedly. That is his primary emotion most of the time, but never jealousy, and never because of a woman. He has never had to feel such an emotion, and doubtless it feels foreign and cumbersome to such as he."

"Lady Wivenbrough, I know you do mean well, but it can't be that a relationship needs so much intervention in order to proceed smoothly," Tempest said with a sigh. "Two people embarked on the journey of marriage should not constantly require a third party to explain away their actions."

"There you are wrong," the countess said. "Have you not heard the saying that it takes a village to make a marriage?"

Tempest shook her head.

"Well, it exists," said the countess airily, waving her fan. "Oh, I see the duchess hailing me. I beg your pardon." And the countess hurried away in a flurry of silks without explaining her quotation.

Before Tempest could circulate in the group of women, the doors opened and the men marched in, led by Saintignon. Tempest shrank back into her chair as his eyes briefly scanned the room and settled on her before he made his way over to her.

"I see you had a riveting meal," he drawled.

"Yes, the scallops were delicious," Tempest replied, looking anywhere but at him.

"I meant with Mr. Henley."

"Was that your doing?" Tempest demanded, dropping her nonchalant air.

"Certainly," he said and smirked at her expression. "Did you expect me to deny it? Given that my affianced apparently has a penchant for conversations pertaining to the 'higher things of life,' I certainly endeavored to grant it to her."

Tempest gritted her teeth. "I had a perfectly wonderful time, thank you. Mr. Henley is the sweetest man and he also has a very engaging smile." She smiled at Saintignon in challenge.

Saintignon's brows snapped together. "What, that old lecher! Why, I never would have expected him to-"

"What is wrong with you?" snapped Tempest, realizing that her precipitate words could put the elderly man out of a living. "Anyone can see that Mr. Henley is perfectly respectable and above reproach! Why must you think so lowly of these people who are supposed to be _your_ friends and guests? Why must you think so lowly of _me_?"

He gazed at her with something approaching uncertainty and heaved a sigh. "I-cannot help myself," he admitted in a low voice. "I suppose if I were more certain…"

"I cannot hear you above the harp," Tempest said, straining to hear his lowered voice above the revelry.

"It is nothing," he said, looking almost sheepish. At the expression in his eyes that resembled nothing so much as a puppy dog looking for affirmation, she forgave him the earlier quarrels.

"You see," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "If we could only communicate like this…"

Tempest trailed off as a commotion along a few of the open windows led much of the party to congregate there. There were loud hoots and yells, and she barely noticed as Saintignon took one of her hands in his gloved fingers. She only just heard him murmur her name before the doors opened, and three men strode in, preceded by the butler.

"Lord Nigel Sare, the Viscount Lord Harry Rochefort, and the Baron Lord Ashton Marchmont," the butler announced.

The Four Horsemen were together once more.


	36. Chapter 36

Tempest gaped.

In the uproar that the unexpected guests created, she had extricated her hand from Saintignon's grasp and was making her way across the room. Similarly, all the guests were doing likewise, gravitating towards the newest arrivals.

"Well?" growled Saintignon next to her as he gazed at his friends. "You were supposed to arrive last week!"

Lord Nigel slapped him on the back. "We decided to make a fashionably late appearance."

"We had a stop to make," agreed Lord Marchmont, an arm slung around Lord Rochefort's shoulders. "There was a rumor that Rochefort here was back in the country and laying low. Naturally, we had to dig him out of seclusion."

There was a silent exchange between Rochefort and Saintignon before the latter grasped the blond man's hand in a firm clasp. "It's good to have you back, Roche."

Rochefort gave one of his rare smiles. "Quite the celebration you have going here," he said, glancing around before his eyes fell on Tempest.

Tempest felt that gaze like a flint striking wood. Her cheeks felt heated and a string of questions filled her mind. What was he doing back in England? Where was Lady Susanna? What was their status? Was Lady Susanna as yet still married to her husband? Was _he_ happy? Was he-

She never had a chance to continue her incoherent thoughts. In the next moment, Saintignon had raised his voice.

"Now that my good friend Rochefort has returned to us, this is truly the night for a celebration. May all my acquaintances, neighbors, and friends join me in a toast to commemorate my engagement to Tempest Makepeace!"

Tempest felt a moment's anger directed at Saintignon-why, for the love all that was holy, did he have to say anything _now_? Why couldn't he have just waited-just until-just until-

 _Just until what?_ a voice inside Tempest asked. _Until you had a chance to speak to Lord Rochefort?_

 _Yes, deuce take it!_ Tempest wanted to roar back, using the harshest words she knew. Was it so very wrong?

 _Yes, it is_ , that voice smugly informed Tempest. _You made a promise to Saintignon already. You are no longer at liberty to indulge in fanciful notions of love with any other men, and don't you forget it!_

The celebration swirled around Tempest, who felt the night pass in a whirl of colors and sounds. A ring had been placed on her nerveless finger, punctuated by a kiss from Saintignon. It was a gigantic, heavy ring with the Saintignon crest on it. Tempest stared at it in a daze. The two-headed dragon reared and faced one another on a shield, one on a white gemstone, the other on a black background. _Victor nocturnis diurnisque_ , it read in small letters.

" _Conqueror of night and day._ I beg your pardon for the lack of a proper betrothal ring," Saintignon said, worrying the ring around her finger. "There are many valuable rings in the Saintignon vault, but only one ring is hailed as the one for the next Duchess d'Auvergne-Talleyrand, and I would not have given you a lesser one for the world. However, as that one currently is within my mother's possession, we must make do with the family crest, which is in my keeping in my father's stead. Until my mother receives my letter and responds, you shall be the protector of my family crest."

Tempest had no words for this proof of his trust and could only stare up at him while he gave her a wry smile. "Yes, both my parents spend much of their time with the Russian court. It is dashed inconvenient when a man wishes to be engaged, is it not?"

Everyone in the company felt obligated to come speak to her and offer her their congratulations. Most even made a credible appearance of genuine goodwill, although Lord Walbrey seemed mostly embarrassed. So many people wanted to toast to their happiness that Tempest drank much too much of the champagne and started to feel giddy.

Lady Saintignon, yes, that was who she shall be. Lady of the manor. The marchioness. She would never have to worry about money again. No more worrying about whether to buy the entire haunch or just a quarter of the haunch at the butcher's. No more parsing the household accounts with the housekeeper and deciding which expenses to put off. No more discussions of which valuables to sell-a discussion that weighed the sentimental value against the monetary in a contest in which one just wanted to weep with the futility of the lack of income. She could have oranges and pineapples until she gagged on it.

Tempest giggled at the thought.

"Are you all right?" Saintignon asked, giving her arm a sharp tug.

She gazed at him dreamily. She supposed he wasn't _terrible_ looking, now that he had stopped his infernal scowling. If one liked the tall and dark type, he certainly was your man. At least he wasn't terribly hairy, despite that unruly mop of curls. He didn't have hair sprouting out from under the edges of his cuffs or a disreputable dark beard. And he certainly had very lovely dark eyes, much like the countess, shaped with a compelling upwards slant at the outer corners. If one didn't prefer fair men-no, she certainly wasn't going to think about that. Especially since she never had a preference, fair or dark, before she embarked on her journey to London. So it really wouldn't be fair to say that she preferred fair men. She giggled. That was just too many "fairs" in that last thought.

"Drink a little tea," Saintignon ordered, frowning down at her. "Carstairs!" he called. "Bring several pots of tea."

Yes, and she could have endless pots of good, strong tea. No more scrimping and saving over tea, drinking watered down versions to be frugal while pretending she enjoyed it weak.

"What's the matter with her?" asked a voice that turned out to come from the very far mouth of Lord Nigel.

"Too much champagne," Saintignon said from the other end of a tunnel. "She comes from such common background that I doubt if she's ever had it before. Certainly she doesn't seem to understand you pretend to sip and not down a glassful with every toast made to you." He accompanied this condescending statement with a very possessive hand at the small of Tempest's back and looked at her in concern as though she were about to faint.

"I'm fine!" she insisted, though her voice seemed to be coming from someone else's mouth.

"She'll be fine once she drinks some tea," said Lord Marchmont, handing her a cup and saucer.

"So, where did you find him?" asked Saintignon. Tempest bent her head to sip at the hot tea. Somewhere in the back of her head, she thought that this conversation must be important, but for now, not spilling her tea commanded her entire attention.

"He never left port, can you believe it?"

Saintignon snorted. "Never say he lost his nerve!"

"Well, not his nerve, exactly. But it appears that they stopped at his estate, and then hers along the way. Her family refuses to accept any mention of divorce, and Rochefort wouldn't have it any other way. They argued about it to rival the Turks and Greeks."

"He refused to accept a compromise," Lord Marchmont summarized. "He told her, like a fool, it's either everything or nothing."

"She's the fool," growled Saintignon. "Why stay with that namby-pamby husband of hers? If she desires to be a widow before remarrying-"

"NO, Saint," said Lord Nigel. "Just leave him be. Except that both of you owe me a hundred guineas. Apiece, mind."

"I wagered that he would get on the boat with her, dammit," said Lord Marchmont. "And he did. He just didn't stay on the boat."

"It's pretty damn clear that 'get on the boat' means to set sail, you makebait," said Lord Nigel.

"You should have specified," argued Lord Marchmont. "Saint, what say you?"

"I thought he would get on the damn boat and sail all the way to Capetown," Saintignon scowled. "How could he run back with his tail between his legs? Is he man or not? He should chase her to Capetown and make her change her mind!"

"The deuce, man, she's not a fox to be hounded to death, Saint," groaned Lord Nigel. "You need finesse to capture the heart of a dame. He should have wooed her and stayed beside her." He shrugged. "But then, I confess I am at a loss as to why he was so adamant about marriage. You can have plenty of fun without any legal ties. More, I can attest."

"We should have taught him better," admitted Lord Marchmont. "We should have stopped by my house and let my sisters preach at him. They could have had him back on the road in pursuit of Susanna, if only to stop them from talking!"

"The both of you are idiots," Saintignon stated. "You should have barricaded them together aboard the ship and bribed the captain to turn a blind eye."

"See, this is the type of devotion Miss Makepeace has to look forward to," said Lord Nigel dryly, glancing sideways at Tempest. "Being hounded into accepting a suitor."

"She has no cause for complaint," said Saintignon haughtily. "And don't speak to her like that."

Tempest's head ached. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to sit down."

"Beg your pardon, ma'am," said Lord Marchmont. "Let me fetch a chair."

Saintignon was already calling for Carstairs.

"No, I need...I need some fresh air," Tempest said.

"Of course," Saintignon said with alarm. "I shall accompany you onto the balcony. But it is decidedly chilly. Carstairs, fetch Miss Makepeace a shawl, if you please."

Tempest's cheeks were ablaze. "No! I mean...I must...refresh myself."

Lord Nigel and Lord Marchmont affected deafness while Saintignon frowned for a while before the implication hit him and he blushed as red as any debutante. "Ah. Shall I, er, accompany you upstairs?"

"Don't be daft," Tempest snapped. "You'll ruin my reputation!"

"It doesn't matter to us," he said, smiling. "I have paid for the cow and I definitely intend to keep it for the rest of my life."

And that, Tempest thought, summarized their relationship and Saintignon's personality as accurately as any almanac. Saintignon considered himself the master of the relationship, and she the somewhat favored pet-a cow, in this case. She felt decidedly peeved at the comparison.

Tempest retreated from the room to use the necessary and then, because she had no desire to retire to her room and ruminate on the events of this evening, she returned back to the festivities. Yolanda was sitting on a settee, engaged in conversation with the countess, and she approached them tentatively.

The countess gazed at her with a searching eye and seemed relieved at whatever she saw in her face.

"When will the wedding take place?" asked Yolanda.

Tempest shrugged and looked at the countess.

"You needn't look askance at me, dear. It is your wedding, and your parents should have a say on the date. Although St. Peter's Cathedral is the most popular venue right now, since churches have made a recent revival _a la mode._ "

"A spring wedding?" wondered Yolanda.

Spring was but a few months away. "No!" said Tempest, and when the countess glanced askance at her, said weakly, "Er, it's just so soon. There's not nearly enough time to plan."

"Nor for summer," agreed the countess. "The fall should be a beautiful time of the year, and that will give us plenty of time with the invitations, for, depend on it, most of the polite society will be toadying to you for one."

"Is that good?" asked Yolanda doubtfully.

"No, it becomes quite tedious," said the countess thoughtfully. "Unless they are people who have been very unpleasant to you, and then you use it as a social weapon." She looked at the expressions on the younger girls' faces and laughed. "Yes, in our world, the women can have just as much power as the men if they wield it correctly. Decisions are not made on battlefields or in Parliament. They are just as often made inside salons, over tea and biscuits. And, in fact, the more powerful you are, the lesser standard of fare you can be expected to provide."

The two girls laughed at the countess's comical expression until she grimaced and set down her ratafia. "Oh dear, Carstairs needs me for some decision-making. I'll leave you two to chat."

"Well, my lady," said Yolanda.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm just getting used to your future title," Yolanda said, biting back a smile. "A marchioness! Won't my parents be in alts about attending your wedding! The wedding of the century, they're already calling it. That is, will they be invited?"

"Of course they will be, silly! How can I not invite your mama and papa when they have been as dear to me as my own family?"

"Will you have the wedding in London then?"

"I don't suppose the wedding of the century can be held in Upper Cheltendon-on-the-Trumble, can it?" Tempest said with a laugh. "Where can we find a venue large enough?"

"Perhaps the Bishop...well, that's rather an imposition, isn't it?"

"I'm quite certain it won't be beyond Saintignon," said Tempest. "But I suppose I have to discuss it with him. I still can't quite believe it...marriage."

Yolanda yawned and looked guilty. "I'm so sorry, Tempest. It's just that this recent spate of excitement is much more than I'm used to. I had best retire before I start snoring in public."

"No, it is I who should apologize, Yolanda!" said Tempest, reaching over to touch her friend's hand. "It is not every friend who would take the time out of the Season to see to someone else's upcoming nuptials. And that is not to mention the actual wedding itself, which seems as though it will fall during your debut."

"It is to be the most joyous time of your life, Tempest. Of course I must be there by your side. But not tonight, unfortunately."

The two girls bade each other good night and Tempest sat back down on her settee with her tea, wondering with whom to strike up a conversation to while away the hours until she could close her eyes. After a few minutes in which it looked as though nobody was planning on approaching her to congratulate her, she rose and made her way to the balconies. With a breath of relief, she saw a group of people standing further out along the steps to the maze. They seemed a trifle well to go and had told the footmen to fetch some torches for a race through the maze.

Tempest smiled to herself. The salons indoors were starting to be stuffy from the excess of candles and the roaring fire, despite the Saintignons' use of beeswax. This seemed like the perfect diversion for her, and best of all, she could see Lord Walbrey standing in the midst of the group.

Before she could make her way towards them, tendrils of their conversation traveled across to her through the still evening air.

"She's a pretty little thing, but so common," Tempest heard and stopped in her tracks, only to hear the man who had congratulated Saintignon effusively continue, "Imagine pronouncing it _London_ with the hard 'd'! Everyone who's anyone pronounces it 'Lunnon.'"

If that was the worse of it, this group had nothing on what Tempest braved in London, she thought with a shrug and continued forward.

"I wouldn't call her pretty, Gerald," commented one girl who had smiled at her earlier in the evening. "Borrowed feathers, have you heard the expression? No? Well, my sister had it on all accounts that in London, she was the plainest of creatures."

"Lady Wivenbrough's bound to have tidied her up a bit before springing her on us," laughed another man. "Still, I wouldn't turn her out on a cold winter's night."

"But marriage?" prompted another voice. "Would you really, Paxy?"

"Lud, no!" the man named Paxy said with another laugh. "Mumsie'd kill me if I broached the subject."

"She's not one of us, that's clear," a girl who had been introduced to Tempest as Lady Anna. "I don't think it'll happen, to be quite honest."

"No, do you suppose so?" said another girl in a semi-hushed voice.

"Twenty guineas," Tempest heard Gerald say before she backed away into the shadows of the house.

"Don't listen to them," said another voice, and Tempest whirled around to see Lord Rochefort sitting on the stone rails with his back to the wall of the house. His entire figure would have been submerged in the darkness were it not for the cheroot in his hand.

"What-what are you doing there?" asked Tempest stupidly.

Lord Rochefort laughed silently at this admittedly redundant question and gazed at the cheroot in his hand as though he had just noticed it. "Having a smoke. Enjoying the toxic night air. Listening to the malice of polite society." He grimaced. "Although 'polite' is more ironic than accurate."

"I suppose you agree with them," she said, compressing her lips.

"In part," he said, startling her.

"I beg your pardon!"

"You do look exceptionally pretty tonight, Miss Makepeace. Common pronunciation notwithstanding," he said with another of his quiet laughs.

"It surprises me to hear that from you," she said. "Given that you were much enamored of one of the most beautiful women in England."

There was a long pause, and he inhaled on his cheroot before tossing it to the side. "No, but was she?"

"You know she was."

"Funny, that. The longer you know a person, the less you notice their appearance. To me, she would have been lovely even with a burn mark clear across her cheekbones. And I have seen someone like that, you know. A pottery kiln explosion. Very tragic."

Tempest didn't say anything. She concentrated on inhaling and exhaling and wondering if she was still tipsy from the champagne or if the night air was affecting her. The laughter of the outside group of merrymakers faded as they made their way further away from the house.

"I wasn't lying when I said you looked lovely tonight. Now, whether I could tell you if it is a result of your ensemble or your personality and kindness, I don't know," he said, and she could tell he was smiling from the tone of his voice.

"Kindness?" she asked stupidly. She was fishing for compliments in the worst of ways.

"You _are_ kind. You are kind enough to come to the aid of friends who need you, regardless of their social status. That's the sort of thing that Susanna would have done," he said wryly.

"What happened?" she breathed. "Between you and Lady Susanna?"

"Nothing," he said. "Absolutely nothing at all. Or, I should say, absolutely nothing that could end in happiness."

"Would she-did she not accept you?"

"She did. But I was made to see, very clearly, that it could never be legal. Or become a formal declaration of any kind."

The earlier conversation between Lord Marchmont, Lord Nigel, and Saintignon started to make sense in her quickly clearing head. "Isn't that enough?" she asked desperately. She had no idea what she was even saying anymore. This was a scandalous topic to broach, and to do it with an unmarried gentleman, and in the dark hours of the early morning-Tempest could not even begin to number the societal rules she was breaking.

"Not for me," he said. "You see, it isn't that she couldn't do it. It was that she had no intention of disrupting her current life. She had no intention of ever taking me seriously enough to take the risk."

"You could have persuaded her in time."

"No," he said in a low voice, standing up from his perch. "She could never see me as anything but a little boy." He sounded terribly bitter.

Tempest bit her lip and stared through the windows at the people inside the salons. They were laughing and playing cards and listening to music. They seemed very far away from the tragedy going on in front of her.

"You do remind me of her," he said softly, and a gloved hand touched a curl that had escaped from her coiffure.

Tempest knew what she should do. She wasn't tipsy in the least, and a loud voice in her head was telling her to go inside _this very minute_. Instead, she turned to face Lord Rochefort, and his handsome face, and those lovely, gentle eyes. It was her undoing.

He closed his eyes and his face came closer.

_

A super long chapter this time as thanks for those readers who faithfully leave lovely reviews despite my updating so sporadically. There was a very difficult plotline to unravel at one point and I struggled with writing it. Real life doesn't leave me a lot of time to write, but I'm trying hard for you guys!


	37. Chapter 37

He kissed her.

His lips were soft and warm and there was an intoxicating taste of the sweetness and tartness of champagne, which only served to emphasize Tempest's first thought:

It felt... wrong.

Tempest couldn't put her finger on what it was, but probably the voice clamoring inside her was what was ruining everything for her by trying to make her see reason. _Stop it, Tempest Makepeace! You are not this type of person who cuckolds her fiancé, much less in public and on the eve of your engagement!_

She pushed him away and he went without a murmur of protest.

"Is it real, do you think?" he asked, looking not in the least bothered by what he had just done, while her heart was pounding like war drums. This was not how she had ever envisioned seeing Lord Rochefort again.

"What is?" she asked desperately.

"Your engagement," he said. "Is it another of Saintignon's tricks?" He seemed to be almost talking to himself.

She made a incomprehensible gargle of sound and rushed back into the room. Luckily, many of the side candles had started to burn down and nobody noticed her as she edged around the walls before sprinting to her room.

Tempest felt like crying. What was this feeling inside her chest, the one that was rejecting everything that had happened tonight? Surely, Lord Rochefort kissing her after telling her she looked beautiful should have sent her into the alts, but not like this. Not with him still half in love with last Susanna, not when Saintignon and his sister both looked at the engagement as real.

Could Rochefort have been more perceptive than anyone else? Was this all an elaborate prank by Saintignon?

Tempest found that she was unable to think about it anymore, and if the sleepy maid who came to undress her thought that she seemed very down for a lady who had just gotten engaged to the greatest catch in all of England, she also kept her own counsel.

0.0.0

The light seeping through the crack in the curtains hinted at morning. Tempest would have preferred to sleep the morning away, but her mind jerked awake without any sympathy for her tired and swollen eyes.

She lay in bed wondering what had happened the night before. Not so long ago, her worst problems would have been propping up yet another ballroom wall and suffering through an interminable night, ignored and slighted. Now, the comments of the unkind partygoers were swept to the back of her mind like nonexistent rubbish.

By and by, Tempest's stomach gave an unruly rumble and she debated between ringing for a tray and going below to breakfast with everyone else. She found her own company oppressive and persuaded herself that nobody else would be up and about so early.

She was almost right. She found Lord Nigel and Yolanda eating in the breakfast room and chatting amiably.

"Nobody can ride mules, Miss Cummings, but what I wouldn't give to see you try," Lord Nigel was saying with some amusement.

"No, it's the absolute truth, for there's no one in Upper Cheltendon with an enviable stable. We all must make do with mules."

"I don't believe a word of it," Lord Nigel said, chuckling.

"Tempest, please tell Lord Nigel of the time you rode on Mr. Henry's mule, do, because he won't believe me!"

Tempest gave a weak smile and said, "Yes, I'm afraid it had to be done, Lord Nigel."

"You terrify me, Miss Makepeace," Lord Nigel drawled. "Is there nothing that deters you?"

"Very little," said Tempest with a straight face.

"Perhaps it's the water in Upper Cheltendon," he murmured.

"I don't suppose you meet many ladies who ride mules," Tempest said.

He gazed at the two of them with raised eyebrows. "Would you believe it if I said I have met none at all before you two?"

Tempest allowed their chatter to drift over her and felt similarly disengaged when Marchmont came in.

"How is it we are the only ones abroad this morn?" he asked, walking over to the sideboard. "Am I mistaken or were we the ones who traveled half the breadth of England to arrive in time for Saintignon's affair?"

"I'll wager Saint has given orders to the servants to present them to the other dining chamber. Besides which, most of the ladies are still abed to preserve their energies, and many a gentleman was carried to bed by his man," murmured Lord Nigel. "And Saint's maze bears strange scorch marks in the light of the sun."

As he summarized his theories, Saintignon strode into the room, wearing a dark frown. "Have I given board to an army of rattleplates? Do they seek to destroy my estate whilst I stand?" he growled. "My bailiff informs me that my fruit saplings in the south grove were trampled last night, before they had time to take root!"

"Methinks such celebration was in response to your announcement last night," said Lord Nigel lightly.

Marchmont looked amused. "Yes, the ladies of the county mourned the loss of such a prestigious catch, but the men were quick to pick up their wet handkerchiefs."

"As though I would have favored a one of them," scoffed Saintignon, striding over to Tempest's chair and picking up her right hand, which was engaged in holding a fork with lax fingers. "And I don't doubt many of them were holding their cap out for one of you."

Tempest struggled; Saintignon tugged; the fork dropped with a loud clatter onto the plate.

"Aren't I the lucky one to be so favored?" said Tempest with a voice laden with irony.

"Indeed," agreed Saintignon, pulling on her hand. He bowed his head and placed a kiss on her knuckles, which caused her to jerk away. He chuckled.

"Well, what would you have us do today, sir?" Lord Nigel asked.

"My sister mentioned a picnic on the island," Saintignon said, taking a seat to the right of Tempest and pulling it very near to her. "A plebian idea and an outing certain to be tiresome, but she has the right of it. If Miss Makepeace is to reside here, she must acquaint herself with every aspect of my lands."

"My lord, could you grant me space with which to handle my silverware?" Tempest said testily.

"Nonsense, my lady. I see your puny arm struggles to lift up this most heavy fork. I must take it upon myself to feed you, since you lack the wherewithal to do it yourself."

Tempest scowled. "I am more than capable of feeding myself, my lord, and have done from a young age."

"Have you indeed? Clearly, peasants lack nutrition from childhood then, if you are one such example. Your parents would have been better off employing a nurse for that simple task and not grant you that employ. I'faith, you would be rounder for it and not like to waste away. I must take great care if I am to have a bride this year and not a stick."

"We no longer live in such feudal-" Tempest's retort was cut off by the appearance of Lord Rochefort.

"I thought you would all be here," he said in his soft voice, gazing about the room. "The rest of the company have been relegated to the Dining Hall?"

"Indeed," Saintignon said coolly. "The servants have their orders. If I must suffer their presence for a fortnight, I would as soon their absence accounted for them."

"I'm certain the countess did not countenance such an action," said Lord Marchmont.

"My sister understands and sympathizes," Saintignon said loftily.

If Tempest had been tempted to shove food down her throat to thwart Saintignon, the appearance of Lord Rochefort removed any inclination to eat. The air became so thick with tension that she was surprised no one else seemed affected by it.

She lifted her head to sneak a look at Lord Rochefort, and found that he was staring back at her quizzically. Did he, too, feel the tension?

"Well, how say you, Rochefort? Are you up to mingling with the company?" Saintignon asked.

"Quite. I find it past time to quit the pleasures of bachelorhood and take up the reins of my estate. Duty calls, don't you know."

In that moment, one could have heard a pin drop in the room. The three other Horsemen fell into an astounded silence at their friend's words.

Then, "Ha!" crowed Saintignon, rising to clap Rochefort on the back. "Envying my steps toward marital bliss, are you? You'll do well to follow in my stead instead of the rakehellish ways of these two makebaits!"

Lord Nigel groaned. "Rochefort, you aren't serious, are you? Will you have us attending balls and the like in search of your one true love? Too, too hackneyed by half!"

"I, likewise, can't help but be bothered by this notion," said Lord Marchmont with a pained expression. "If you've a mind to gallivant with the fairer sex, then pray indulge first in light flirtations before you march into the parson's mousetrap!"

"Not a word of it shall you listen, Rochefort, my man," said Saintignon, laughing next to Tempest. "Two more reprehensible and undiscerning men you could not hope to meet. Heed you my advice and find a good woman as I have."

Tempest could not help but blush at the conversation raging over her head, and specifically Saintignon's complimentary words for her. The surprise of Lord Rochefort's desire to settle down notwithstanding, being hailed as a good woman by Saintignon made her red with mortification. Did a good woman seek to speak with a young, unmarried man in the dead of night? Did she allow him to kiss her? No and no. She felt, suddenly, very low in stature and mean-spirited. Hadn't she, a day ago, vowed to accept Saintignon? There was nothing for it, and the bleakness in Lord Rochefort's eyes were certainly not her concern.

"So it is no joke," Lord Rochefort said, lifting and drinking from his cup.

Tempest chanced a look at the fair man and bit her lip when she saw that he was looking straight back at her with penetrating eyes. She squirmed in her seat and her utensils made an unseemly clank against her plate.

"Manners excepted," Saintignon stated, before picking up her hand and clasping it in his. "She is a fetching girl and I've a mind to keep her by my side."

Must he always tease her so in public? Tempest fumed, jerking her hand away for the second time that morning.

"She looks to be in a different mind," observed Lord Rochefort. "Miss Makepeace, you are uncommonly silent today. Have you nothing to contribute? Never fear, for I shall play your knight if your honesty displeases the company."

Tempest was aware of Yolanda shifting in her seat, uncomfortable with the unspoken tensions in the room. Lord Rochefort now was urging her to meet his gaze, his eyes warm with compassion and concern.

 _Why, he doesn't remember a thing of the night before_ , Tempest thought hysterically. While she struggled with her conscience, it seemed that the object of her erstwhile affection was all but in the dark as to the illicit doings of the night before. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He was still her willing savior to her, gently communicating his will to defend her against Saintignon as he had done in the past. He was everything Saintignon was not, gentle and compassionate, with the ability to read between the lines and sense that not all was well. In stark contrast, although Tempest had forsworn such unfavorable comparison, was Saintignon, overbearing, brash, loud, with an underlying edge of cruelty and ruthlessness, and only his disinclination towards dallying with women his only asset.

" _Are_ you willing?" Lord Rochefort prompted.

"I…" Tempest's mouth grew dry as the words refused to come forth.

"Roche, it's not your affair," said Lord Nigel. "Leave the lovebirds alone."

"It is only that it is still hard to credit. I was but gone for a few months, and I return to find two enemies engaged to marry. It beggars belief."

"It's true enough," laughed Lord Marchmont. "Saint has been smelling of April and May this age, had you been attending."

"See, she wears the family crest willingly enough, if you need proof."

"Yes," Lord Rochefort said faintly. "She could throw it away if so inclined, thus I must give credence to the farce yesterday."

Saintignon was in such high alts he seemed to overlook Rochefort's unfortunate choice of words entirely.

"A pity that I was so tardy in returning," Rochefort said, the wry smile returning to his lips. "Else I would have been quicker to grab the prize."

Tempest's heart dropped into her belly. But no, he surely was only being glib.

Saintignon startled her by roaring with laughter next to her. "Yes, you were too late to the mark, and don't you forget it!"

It was a festive group that made for the Island around midday. The Island was a small landscaped area in the midst of the lake on the property of the _Willows_ , featuring a picturesque grotto and a thematic Athenian temple. No less than ten boats struck out for the island, six of them holding the occupants of the great house, and four larger conveyances bearing servants and food.

It was as far from a rural setting as it could possibly be. There was already a host of servants around the temple, along with pitched marquees erected around the landscaped gardens. Excited chatter filled the air all around them, and gasps arose when they drew up closer to the temple to find a roaring fire on a raised circular platform, and a woman dressed in Grecian robes presiding.

"How too delightful!" an exclamation came from behind Tempest.

"He has a priestess to act out the ancient sacrificial rituals for us, how divine!" someone else said with a laugh.

"Shall we each take a votive and make an offering, Saint?"

"Certainly," Saintignon was saying in his deep, carrying voice. "The ritual is but an act, but we shall surely partake of the meat!"

Tempest couldn't help but be enchanted by this recreation of a place she had never before seen, but knew from the museums in London. She and Yolanda linked arms and walked into the temple in wonder, where a few more priestesses, surely, paid actors, handed them palms and incense. It was not a far stretch of the mind to believe themselves in southern climes.

"Are we to eat in here?" Yolanda asked, gazing upwards at the temple. It should have been garish, with its gold paint and striped columns, but the effect was glorious.

"Perhaps he will have us reclining like Egyptians," Tempest replied, laughing with delight. "How very silly of him!"

It was a very festive day. The food was served by nymphs dressed in draped clothing, with green silk intertwined in their hair to indicate that they were woodland creatures. There was a priestess who supposedly told fortunes, and many of those in the party went forth to have their fortune read. Then there was a play, which was put on by a traveling troupe.

There was much to see and do and Tempest laughed and ate and chatted and knew Saintignon was in the background, pleased at how successful his house party had turned out to be. Even though his sister must have arranged most of the festivities, he clearly was not averse to taking credit.

"I haven't had my fortune told," Tempest realized after the play had ended. "I must catch the priestess before she leaves."

"But the fireworks will start soon," protested Yolanda.

"I shall not be long," said Tempest, who, when she had made up her mind, decided that the gypsy woman hired to act the part of the fortune-teller could surely tell her a thing or two.

She made her way up the landscaped path to the temple, where many of the temple servants turned out to be local people, cleaning up and laughing. Many of them had taken off their costumes, and so it was a strange and unlikely looking group that looked up as Tempest approached.

"May I help you, miss?" asked one woman who, without her Grecian robes and trailing vines, looked more like somebody's mother than a nymph.

"Is the fortune-teller still here?"

"Through there, miss," said another half-nymph, half-barmaid worker.

Tempest walked through where she was pointed and found a gray-haired woman counting coins on a low pedestal.

"Have you time for one more fortune?" Tempest asked.

She was suddenly confronted by a pair of dark eyes that seemed to rake her top to bottom before returning to meet her eyes with such a penetrating gaze that never before had she encountered.

"If you'll cross my palm with silver for my trouble," the woman finally said. Her skin was dark and sallow and she didn't look as though she hailed originally from England.

Tempest dug into her reticule and passed over a shilling.

It disappeared with such a quick sleight of hand that Tempest had qualms about the rest of the contents of her purse.

"Show me your palm then, my fine miss," the woman said and took Tempest's hand with a grip as calloused and strong as a farm labourer's.

A sharp intake of breath and Tempest was tempted to demand her money back and run away. Would she be given trite phrases? This was in all probability a waste of good money. A shilling was steep indeed, but she supposed as the last customer, the fortune-teller thought she could demand any sum she pleased.

"You have a hand whose fortune I've not seen in this age. Multiple paths lie in front of you. If you choose the darkness, you shall know deep hardships and much tribulation of the heart, for the man there is one who is hard to love and is harder to leave. If you choose the light, you will know only deep longing and the bite of duty amidst the quiet. If you choose neither of these, you shall know bittersweet reminiscence and regret to the end of your days."

Tempest stared. She expected a cryptic message, but had been confident of her ability to decipher it. This, however, was more than cryptic; her fate sounded positively dire. "This is a hard fortune to accept," she said slowly. "Is there no route that brings me happiness? Or true love?"

The woman chuckled and let go of her hand. "How narrow-minded are the young. Do you not know, then, that happiness is within our grasp at all times should we accept our fate?"

"Which should I choose then?" Tempest asked. "How do I know my choices by their consequences? And what mean you by the way of darkness? I attend church regularly!"

The gypsy woman laughed. "No one can know their choices by the consequences unless they are born of tomorrow. I can only tell you this: love and happiness are choices you make for yourself."

"You speak in riddles," said Tempest, exasperated. "And not one worth a shilling! I wished for a proper fortune."

"My untried miss, at times, an obscure fortune is worth its weight in gold. Tempt not the fates by forcing a fortune edged in sorrow."

"Indeed," a third voice intoned. "Pray leave the woman be and sit awhile with me."


	38. Chapter 38

"Lord Rochefort," Tempest exclaimed.

"The hour grows late," he said. "We must not keep the workers out when they have been up at dawn seeing to our entertainment."

"Aye, the sight grows dim with the hour," agreed the gypsy.

He moved forward to shepherd Tempest away and she saw his hand briefly touch the gypsy woman's in a familiar exchange.

They were out of the temple before Tempest could berate him. "You interrupted my reading and then gave her more money!"

Lord Rochefort shrugged and looked amused. "Are you angry because your fortune-telling was interrupted or because I gave her well-deserved money for a day's hard work catering to the privileged? They are two matters entirely."

"I paid her a shilling," Tempest protested. "It is a fair sum for a few words and I would have liked to have gotten a complete fortune."

He laughed in earnest. "Most of the other guests have been littering guineas all morning in their appreciation of this activity, fanciful nonsense such as it is, and are you now bemoaning your shilling?"

She lifted her chin. "The difference is that the others have guineas to spare."

"Soon you shall have jewels to spare," he observed and lifted an eyebrow at her expression. "Did you not know that? The Saintignon coffers are famous for a reason, and their pastes are more expensive than some people's jewels. Do not suppose just because you have only a signet ring now that you won't have endless gold at your disposal."

Tempest's levity deserted her. "This…engagement isn't what it seems."

Lord Rochefort seemed to be smiling at an inside joke. "Isn't it?"

"It's a misunderstanding," she blurted out. "We were found in a damaging position. Out of some misguided sense of chivalry, Saintignon offered the guise of this engagement." Tempest swallowed hard. Yes, that was what it was in the beginning and she had told herself that countless times. But in light of his behavior since then and Lady Wivenbrough's kindness, such a statement seemed more than a bit ungrateful.

"And you are going through with it?" Lord Rochefort now asked with penetrating eyes.

"I... yes. I am. I must."

He surveyed her for a moment. "Congratulations," he finally said. "Although I would feel infinitely more comfortable saying it were you not looking so put-upon."

"I don't," she denied, hands flying to her cheeks.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

"I-"

"I ask because, fool that he is, he is still my friend. He has not evaded the parson's mousetrap only to be captured only to salvage his own reputation. Or yours."

Tempest felt as though she had been slapped. "I'm not trying to trap him," she said hotly. "I've been _trying_ to do the opposite of that."

"I daresay the fact you don't claim to be in love with him puts you at a very small percentage of the female population," he agreed wryly. "And he does appear to be enamored of being affianced."

"Yes. It's his newest lark," she agreed.

"Fool!" he breathed. "Had he thought of some other way of redress, he need not have tied up both your futures. Now no one will believe it if you cry off unless he commits some egregiously horrific error."

Tempest said nothing. She had already gone through everything he was now saying.

" _Do_ you want to marry him?" he asked urgently.

"He is being very generous with my family," she said, looking anywhere but at Lord Rochefort.

"It is but money," he scoffed. "Little one, don't you know that matters that can be solved by money are not worth debating?"

"So says someone who has always had money!" she retorted. "For the rest of us, everything is always about money!"

"Saintignon is an optimistic fool," he mused, half to himself. "The rest of us are more realistic and have no hearts left to break."

"You are the fool," she said, scoffing at his melodramatic statement. "You are not yet thirty and you claim to lock away your affections for good? Far be it from me to commend Saintignon, but he is not the addlepate here."

He started at her with eyebrows raised, as though stunned by her temerity. She stared back in challenge until he burst into laughter. "Miss Makepeace, I must say that your brutal insults are becoming rather precious to me. In fact, the other night, I was sure I was but dreaming of something... but alas, it is nothing a gentleman brings into polite conversion."

"You kissed me," she blurted out in a rush.

He stared at her for a long moment. "Then-it was not a dream?"

She shook her head, looking away.

"Miss Makepeace, my utmost apologies if I offended you in any way," he said, looking puzzled and slightly appalled. "You see, it really did not end very well for Lady Susanna and myself. In fact, I have been all sorts of boozed up until today."

"That is no excuse," she said, feeling even worse. Worse because she had dwelt upon that kiss in the darkness of the night.

"It is no excuse," he admitted. "And it was a very poor way to repay my dear friend, for friends we have become, yes?"

Tempest swallowed and then nodded jerkily.

"Even worse, I cannot imagine what Saintignon would make of this."

"At one point, he would have me strung up and horsewhipped," she said, rewinding her memories by several months. "He has no right to expect any better from his victim."

"He would not do so now, I wager."

"Won't he?" Tempest asked. "You have known him a long time. His rages are not confined to men alone, and if angered, he would expend them on the female of the species."

"Yes," Lord Rochefort conceded. "As you very well know, he is gentleman but in title only, when he is beset by his demons."

"He is a different animal from you, my lord," Tempest said. "He is kind to me now, because he is so inclined, but it is not in his nature to be so soft and loving. I am certain he will come to regret his act of chivalry."

Lord Rochefort smiled faintly. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Who can know what the future holds? Certainly I have never before seen Saintignon so continuously pleased and in good humor. Is it so impossible you shall be the one to tame the beast? Is it so impossible that the love of a good woman could effect wonders?" His smile did not entirely ring true.

"Would I that you could have happiness too," she said suddenly. "For you are certainly more worthy than he." She wished that Lord Rochefort would smile freely and joyfully and not be as introspective and melancholy as he was. In a different life, perhaps that could have even been her occupation.

"So you would that I will love again?" he mused.

"Love is a choice," she said, thinking of the choices she had made, and the cryptic remarks of the gypsy. "Marriage should be too."

"Indeed," he replied, falling silent and regarding her thoughtfully. "Then I would you have the same freedom of choice as I. Miss Makepeace, you know I am a wealthy man?"

"I _had_ heard," she said ironically.

"None of your sass," he chastised. "Nowhere in Saintignon's league, I'm afraid, but enough to be envied. In addition, I have no expensive habits to render me bankrupt at any foreseeable time."

"Lord Rochefort, if you have interrupted me this night to boast of your wealth, then consider me informed-"

"Heed me, Miss Impatient. What I can offer you is this-freedom from debt, freedom from an impossible choice that I see weighs heavily on you. I can take it upon myself to make your brother my ward and see to his schooling and procure for him a livelihood upon completion of his studies. In doing so, he will be afforded a comfortable living on one of my properties, with a fee simple so that your parents will never want. If your current property is not entailed, your father will be at liberty to sell it and invest the money or to rent it as he pleases. I shall be more than happy to counsel him on matters of investment so that your family should never fall destitute again. You must weigh in your own mind whether to be an independent spinster-for this shall not salvage your reputation as marriage to Saintignon-or wife to a scion of England."

Her mouth had fallen open in a manner that was undoubtedly very unattractive as she sought to absorb the information spewing from him. "Why?" she asked after an incredulous moment. "Why should you do such a thing?"

He smiled faintly. "Do you know how many supplicants send me letters in a week? Do you know how many dependents I have? At least I shall know of one family who truly needs the aid. You put up a good show, but I know your straitened circumstances chafe at you."

"It is much too generous," she said. "And you will never be certain of recompense."

"I don't seek repayment," he said. "It is enough that you are deserving of it."

"It is charity," she said flatly. "And we are not so destitute as to desire it."

"Consider it an opportunity for your brother," he said. "Only this opportunity comes without your sacrifice. Is that so much harder to bear? To gain without sacrifice?"

"Yes," she replied immediately.

He smiled that faint smile of his. "Then to suffer _that_ shall be your sacrifice. From now on, you can have an anonymous benefactor, and you never need speak to Saintignon again if that is your wish. As you so persuasively say, love and marriage should both be choices, unimposed by external forces."

"I do not know what to say."

"Delay your answer then," he commanded. "And tell me in a month's time. Although I do advise some haste, as Saint is not one to delay. If you accept my offer on the way down the aisle, it should make for a very messy business indeed."

o.o.o.o.o

Dilemma upon dilemma!

Tempest returned to the party in an even worst mood than ever. Rather than finding out what the future held for her, her quandary had doubled.

She was also quite certain she still felt _something_ for Lord Rochefort. Certainly, discussing problems with him was much more pleasant than with Saintignon, who ranted and raved and ran roughshod over her comments if they failed to align with his views. And there was no doubt that Lord Rochefort was a true gentleman-with much charity doled out at random so that he could so blithely volunteer to become her benefactor.

Certainly, his offer was nowhere as capacious as Saintignon's. There would not be an annuity for her, nor an estate of her own, regardless of future heirs. But her brother's livelihood would be ascertained, his schooling promised, and her parents taken care of for the rest of their lives. The sale of their house or rental would settle all debts so that they could start fresh. To live as a dependent would be slightly mortifying, yes, but soon their savings could be invested with someone honest and scrupulous and, most importantly, capable of profitable returns, instead of her father's haphazard and disastrous investments.

All without having to marry anyone. All without having to enslave herself forever. It was freedom from having to do her duty.

If only Lord Rochefort had been the one to propose!

The only moral dilemma here, Tempest decided, was whether selling herself and misleading a man into thinking she felt genuine affection for him was worse than accepting charity. Which sacrifice was more worthy? Which sacrifice resulted in more suffering?

Accepting charity was infinitely more mortifying, but...would it be charity if she could see Lord Rochefort from time to time? If she could persuade him to love her and want to marry her? Would the humiliation of accepting it be worth the opportunity to be close to him? And for that audacity of thought, suffering his eventual marriage to another woman?

In the end, it really was no choice at all.

Finding the right opportunity proved to be the challenge.

"I've made up my mind," Tempest said bluntly to Lord Rochefort as the fireworks drew to a close.

He was reclining on a blanket, idly rolling an unlit cheroot between his fingers. At her words, he angled his face at her and blinked twice. For a brief, mad moment, Tempest wondered if everything that had led up to her announcement was a dream and that Lord Rochefort was about to ask her, "About what?"

But in the next moment, he had gracefully leapt to his feet and asked, "Have you now?"

Tempest considered him for a moment. His face was calm and impassive, as though they could have been discussing the weather. Not the fireworks, mind, nothing bordering even on enthusiasm. Only tepid interest in what she had to say.

"I've decided to accept your generous offer of benefactor to my brother," she said.

"Ah," was all he said at first, rocking back on his heels. "You chose freedom over love, I see."

He didn't see at all, actually, but Tempest wasn't about to disabuse him of his fanciful notions at this moment.

"Shall we go inform Saint then?" he asked, still in that mild voice. "Have you discussed this with your parents?"

Tempest swallowed. "I haven't. I preferred to present them with a... _fait accompli_."

"Very brave of you," he said gravely. "Although it really didn't take you very long to come to a decision. Are you sure you wouldn't like to sleep on it? I'm in no doubt as to the gravity of the situation. Marriage is, I'm told, a monumental event in a girl's life."

He was lost in some thoughts of his own for a brief moment, so quick as to be unobserved by most, but Tempest saw and she hurt for him. "I don't need to reconsider," she said, lifting up her chin. "There is pride and sacrifice of a different sort in accepting charity."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. And you are the picture of it, marching as though to the gallows instead of having a very benevolent overlord such as I. I do assure you, I shan't request your brother's soul, or any such nonsense. What should I do with another's soul, after all, when I can't find a purpose for my own?"

Tempest smiled only briefly at his nonsensical witticism.

"Shall we tell him then?" he asked.

"Now?" She was slightly taken aback.

"No time like the present," Lord Rochefort said. "And I'm always at my best at night."

"Shouldn't I tell him myself?" Tempest protested in an effort to delay matters.

He gazed at her for a moment. "You could," he said. "But I rather thought you would prefer the company and, er, moral support. Was I wrong?"

"No, no, you weren't."

"Although, I should tell you, as someone who has known Saint for a very, _very_ long time, trust me when I say that he is extremely likely to jump to the wrong conclusions."

"What kind of conclusions could he draw from this? I am only asking to be released from an agreement that was only a convenient sham in the first place." Tempest tried not to think of Saintignon's plea for her to give their engagement a chance. She had never promised him, after all. And he had announced the engagement on his own, even before notice in the papers had been printed or the banns read. The more she thought of it, however, the drier her mouth became and the heavier her stomach felt.

It just turned out a bit differently than she had supposed, that was all. Since that time a very long time ago in London, Saintignon had transformed into someone who was not a villain, but who had some redeemable traits amidst his faults. But still, it was not love or even devotion, she argued to herself.

Tempest did not fool herself by desiring romance-if wishes grew on trees, she would not be facing this dilemma with Saintignon, but someone else much gentler in nature. Saintignon, she knew, was capable of great loyalty and trustworthiness in a crisis, and yet his temper was unmatched. She had witnessed his striking of even his dearest friend, after all. Such actions were enough to give anyone pause. If even his closest and dearest were meted with such punishment for no reason, what hope had she of escaping if she committed a faux pas by his definition? Such wariness and fear were not the best basis for marriage, though, and none of their interactions to date had proved her thesis wrong. She also did not desire to make a wife-killer of Saintignon, for surely he would be roused to it soon enough should they live together on a permanent basis. Only see how poorly she guarded her mouth around him!

"Let's first request to return to the house," he said. "He used to pull these ridiculous pranks to strand his visitors on this island, and I really don't want to give him more reason for such behavior."

Before they could approach Saintignon, however, he came striding up to them, a rare, wide grin across his face.

"Did you enjoy the fireworks?" he asked, directing his question at Tempest.

"Er, yes," she said. A lie, when her mind had been too busy wrestling with decisions and choices to gaze at the organized chaos erupting in the skies.

Saintignon frowned. "Well, it doesn't look that way," he said, looking put out. "I thought I did a fair job myself, having a hand in some of the fireworks. You know, it's not as easy as they make it seem."

He was pouting, she realized with exasperation. "Oh, and they let you strike the tinder, did they? An enormous contribution on your end, my lord."

"For your information, I made a significant portion of the fireworks you saw here tonight. One has to calculate the trajectory and the different composites that goes into the gunpowder," he scowled. "It took weeks of preparation."

Tempest was about to have another go at him when she saw Lord Rochefort's raised eyebrows. He was right. Prodding Saintignon when she was about to jilt him was not the way to soothe the beast. And it was yet another reason why she should end this as soon as possible. "That sounds extremely challenging and difficult," she choked out. "However did you manage such an intelligent and… brilliant feat?"

Lord Rochefort pressed his lips together to signal that it was a valiant effort, but Saintignon looked pleased. "Noticed, have you?" he said.

"Yes, but Miss Makepeace was telling me how she would really prefer to return to the house," Lord Rochefort, the most mature one of the group, cut in before they could descend into petty squabbling.

"I'm, er, not feeling quite the thing," she lied gamely. She was very seldom ill, and usually never from the elements.

"You should have said so at once!" Saintignon said before motioning for a servant, snapping out instructions for them to be rowed back to the house. "I shall see you back immediately."

"I'll come too," Lord Rochefort said.

They headed back towards the house, with Saintignon providing the majority of the conversation. Once back on dry land, they trudged towards the house in much the same way. Inside the parlor, Saintignon called for tea.

"Heavens above, you knew we were to spend the entire day on the island," continued Saintignon to Tempest's annoyance. "Wherever is your shawl? I have servants with extra blankets and hot bricks patrolling the folly. Have you no brains at all not to avail yourself to these necessities? Or is living in luxury addling your wits?" he scolded, making her want to break her news as soon as possible.

"Hold your peace, Saint. I think she has something she wishes to say to you," Lord Rochefort cut in.

"What is it?" Saintignon asked, still scowling at what he thought was her imminent onset of the ague at any moment now.

"Lord Rochefort has…made me a very generous offer in lieu of, of marrying you. So, you see, we shall not have to be wed anymore," Tempest said in an incoherent rush. In the silence that followed, she remembered the signet ring that was bound about her thumb with the aid of a scrap of muslin to keep it in place. She hastily took it off and held it out to Saintignon. "Thank you for all the kindness you have shown me."

Then in the next moment, Tempest looked up and full into Saintignon's shocked demeanor.

-.-.-.-

A/N:

These chapters have gotten progressively longer. We are coming up on some really difficult scenes/chapters, so I totally understand if people lash out at the characters or don't like certain things. The dialogues sometimes don't go exactly the way I like.

On another note, this fic is getting to be a beast. I found a place where it could possibly end, but it will be before Saintignon's mother comes back from Russia. Originally, I planned to write it all the way to the end, past the mother, Shigeru, and the original disastrous amnesia sequence, but I'm not able to write as fast as I'd like, and I don't like the idea of people waiting on tenterhooks! So, it's possible I put in an ad hoc ending as a buffer for people who need a conclusion. (I mean, I get it. Nobody likes an unfinished work.)

P.S. Regarding Rochefort, well, I always thought it was interesting that the mangaka originally intended him to be the hero, but our curly-headed hero took the ball and ran with it. I think he got a raw deal. I mean, two missed chances at love? Destined to be a background character? Too sad. That doesn't mean Tempest will end up with him here, ha. Just that he wasn't given enough justice, maybe.


	39. Chapter 39

"What did you say?" Saintignon asked in slow, measured tones, brows drawing together over the bridge of his nose.

The descent from light-hearted bickering into dangerous territory was too sudden even for her although she was the instigator. "I-" Tempest glanced at Lord Rochefort in support. "I thank you most kindly for offering the honor of marriage, but-"

"Before that," Saintignon prompted, still in that scary voice, his eyes narrowed and flashing between her and Lord Rochefort.

"We shall not have to be wed now, because Lord Rochefort has kindly offered to take me, that is, my family, under his protection." Tempest intended to reiterate her thanks for his kindness, but she never got to finish her sentence.

Suddenly, it was as though a different man stood in front of her. This Saintignon was not the pouting, sheepish man he had recently been with her. This Saintignon was the man from London, the one who had once or twice appeared in her nightmares. She stepped backwards instinctively as he loomed over her.

"You are breaking our engagement?" he asked, his eyes so dark they threatened to swallow her. At her hesitant nod, he suddenly moved like lightning and grabbed her about the shoulders. His fingers dug painfully into her skin and Tempest cried out in earnest, trying to twist away from him to explain.

"Don't say another word," Saintignon whispered, his hands clenched and shaking at his sides. " _Don't-say-another-word."_

"What are you doing?" Lord Rochefort exclaimed, reaching out a hand to restrain his friend one second before Saintignon whirled around and punched him full in the face so that he fell down unimpeded to the ground. Saintignon then hauled his friend back up by his cravat.

"You," Saintignon breathed into the face of his fair-headed friend, his face mottled with anger so that he shook with it. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You should really learn to control your temper," Lord Rochefort said, his hurt mouth twitching with amusement before he got the shaking of a lifetime.

"Under your protection? Under _your protection?!_ This is how you have repaid our friendship? By stealing my bride?" Saintignon was so enraged his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

"She's not your bride yet," Lord Rochefort said pedantically and unwisely before groaning as he was struck another blow in the gut.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Tempest cried, pulling ineffectually at Saintignon's arm. Good heavens, he was strong and pulsing with barely contained fury as though he were about to spin out of control.

He jerked his arm out of her grasp and unwittingly dropping Lord Rochefort before swiping her across the face with his hand. "You _slut_!" he said in a low voice filled with suppressed menace that was all the more scary for his lack of volume.

Tempest clutched at her cheek, which failed to register any sort of pain in the sudden turn of events. Her eyes were wide as Saintignon advanced on her."What? No!" she denied, and so intimidated by his anger that she retreated several steps.

"How long has this been going on?" Saintignon demanded, chest rising and falling. "Tell me! How long have you been dallying with _my friend_ behind my back, my faithful fiancée?"

"What? No! It's not like that at all!" she protested, and then her mind suddenly jumped to the drunken kiss Lord Rochefort gave her and subsequently forgot. Her face flushed with guilt, and Saintignon's cheek jumped with a tic.

"I'll kill you for making a fool of me," Saint whispered, his voice catching. "Had a laugh at me, did you? Sneered at my professions of devotion, did you? Did none of that mean anything to you?" There was a thread of anguish in his voice that in her terror, Tempest did not notice.

Instead, she looked wildly back at him, shaking her head in denial. "I never sneered!" she tried to say. "I'm trying to help our situation!"

"I warned you, didn't I?" Lord Rochefort said wryly into this tenseness, sitting on the rug with one knee drawn up, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding lip. "I warned you about his tendency to hit first and ask questions second."

"You planned this," breathed Saintignon, gazing from one of them to the other. He turned from them and held on to the sideboard with white-knuckled hands. Suddenly, without warning, he jerked the entire sideboard up, doily, candelabra, potpourri, letter tray, and hurled it to one side, narrowly missing striking Lord Rochefort in its path. Lord Rochefort merely angled his head to one side to avoid the worst of the collision, as though he were used to furniture being hurled at his head every day of the week.

"You desired his protection outside of marriage, is it?" Saint sneered, breathing hard. "I was right. You _slut_! You reject the sanctity of marriage for, what, two rolls in the hay with him? He's not in love with you! He's still in love with Susie! And you are willing to sacrifice what we have for that!"

"Stop it!" Tempest screamed, recovering from her shock. "Shut up, you stupid, stupid madman! There was no planning! And _we_ were supposed to have a _sham_ engagement!" she yelled, gesturing between Saintignon and herself.

"Let me explain," Lord Rochefort said, chuckling a bit despite his swollen cheek. "You see, Tempest, or, don't hit me again, please, _Miss_ Makepeace, rather, utilized a very poor choice of words. I feel certain that she doesn't quite comprehend the tacit understanding of being in someone's protection. What she meant to say was that I offered her _family_ a way to extricate themselves out of debt by taking her brother as my ward. There are no strings attached to this offer. This is not some sordid _carte blanche_. It is simply a way to help a fellow being in their time of need, so that they can retain the dignity of choice."

"What is the meaning of this?" Saintignon demanded. "Was I not generous enough in the settlement agreements? Did I not demonstrate my desire to provide amply for your family?"

"No, yes, I mean, you did, but-"

"It just wasn't enough for you, was it?" Saintignon jeered. "Marriage with the purest of intentions wasn't good enough for you? You _are_ a slut!"

"You're wrong," Rochefort said calmly and raised his hands when Saintignon swiveled his head back to glare at him. "Miss Makepeace is not that kind of woman. This is not about love or the lack of it. It is about choice."

"A choice between us?" Saint sneered. "It should be clear to anyone whose pockets are deeper. Except I suppose a countrified mushroom like you has no idea. Don't you know, my dear? I could buy Rochefort ten times over. Is _he_ still what you want then? Perhaps the news were a little slow to reach the pig sloughs of Upper Cheltendon." The expression on his face was ugly as he gave vent to unpleasant insults.

"You complete pig," Tempest whispered. "Do you think the world revolves around you and your money? I couldn't care less about your riches! This isn't about money! It's about the ability to decide my own fate! Do you think your crazed display of temper endeared you to me, if anything had? Do you think I give two pence about the size of this estate or however many estates you own? I was trying to save you from yourself, from having to ally yourself with me before you had even realized what you were doing, you idiotic, stupid man! But now I just want to be free of you and your disgusting bursts of violence! Yes, there's a choice here, of marrying and not marrying you, and I've just made it!"

Tempest was breathing hard when she finished yelling. There was a silence so complete that she realized that all the servants who were still within the house must have heard her. Her cheek burned where he had struck her and she wanted more than anything to strike him back, but the impetus for such violence was over, now that the room had gone completely still.

Saintignon looked shocked and taken aback by her screamed abuse. "Did I hurt you?" he asked finally, lifting a hesitant hand in her jerked back her head before he could touch her. She darted backwards away from him, and he stopped cold, nonplussed. They stared at each other, her with defiant anger, him with consternation.

"I didn't mean to strike you," he clipped out, still looking a little befuddled and angry.

"Didn't you?" she shot back bitterly. "Just like you didn't mean to persecute me in London? Just like you didn't mean to set all of your useless follow me? You always have some excuse, don't you? You make me _sick_!"

He blinked and shook his head slightly. "No, you mistake me. I lost my head. Forgive me," he said imperiously. "I misunderstood completely. "

"No, I won't," she said, fists clenching and unclenching at her side. All she knew at that moment was how she had been completely wrong about just how much this man had changed. Leopards didn't change their spots and a madman didn't regain sanity overnight. "I hate everything about you and I always did. You've only just served to remind me how much and why."

"Don't be ridiculous," Saintignon clipped out. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Because I'm a 'countrified mushroom from pig sloughs'? You've just demonstrated just how lowly you think of me, sirrah, and I'm glad for it."

His eyes were ablaze with some emotion. "Is it because you're in love with him? I'm not completely blind-"

"Weren't you listening?" Lord Rochefort asked dryly. "It's about choice, not love."

"Is it?" Saintignon asked, his eyes never leaving hers. "Is that what you're saying to me?"

Tempest turned her face away.

"Stop harassing her," Rochefort said. "Isn't it enough you've already struck her?"

Saintignon flinched. "I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have done that."

"Miss Makepeace," Richelieu says kindly. "Retire to your bedchamber and rest, if you can. I'll send up a maid with a cold compress for your cheek."

"I…" said Saintignon, stretching his hand out towards her before dropping it again. "Tempest, I…" He shook his head once, twice. "Give me another chance," he demanded, his voice not quite steady.

"Let it go, old chap," Lord Rochefort said as Tempest turned her back on them and walked from the room. "It's not always about love."

"Isn't it?" she heard Saintignon say. "Then I think you're the one who's blind."

Once outside the parlor, Tempest paused only for a moment to catch a breath before running for her room. Then she locked her door and threw herself across the bed, crying until she fell asleep.

When she woke, in the first clarity of thought that hovers between consciousness and dreams, Tempest understood completely what the gypsy had meant: the road of darkness was Saintignon, of course, he of the dark eyes and hair and dark, angry ways. The way of the light was Lord Rochefort, of gentleness and peace with longing and "the bite of duty," whatever that meant. To choose neither would leave her reputation in tatters and finances in disarray.

Her first instinct was to pack away all her things and harry her friend and parents from here. The way of the darkness lay hardship and tribulation indeed! Saintignon was the devil! Hard to leave? She would prove that gypsy wrong at once! Every time she was predisposed to thinking well of him, he would prove her wrong in the twinkling of an eye.

Tempest struggled to sit up, and once accomplished, she realized that she never undressed for the night. It was only lucky that the current fashion against stays made her able to fall asleep. She debated with herself on calling the maid, but negated that almost at once. She had never had to do with a maid, and now that she was no longer going to be married to Saintignon, she had to do without that luxury starting right now.

With determined fingers, Tempest peeled the wrinkled dress off and poured some water into the wash basin to clean her face and neck. She winced a little as she touched her cheek-it felt tender, no thanks to her one-time fiancé, and good riddance to him too!

Then she opened the wardrobe to pull out one of her older gowns, thankful that the maids had the foresight to hang all of her gowns up. After she spoke with her parents, however, she would need to begin to pack. Perhaps she could beg assistance from Lord Rochefort in leaving this place.

Already, she was starting to regret accepting Lord Rochefort's assistance. Not that she wished to still marry Saintignon, no, that madman had a temper to avoid like the seven circles of hell! It was only that she was already repaying him poorly by being such a burden. Not for anything would she have come between him and his friend. Unfortunately, that was now unavoidable, because one of the people involved was someone so volatile as Saintignon.

After she had completed her toilette, she left herself out of her room quietly, noting that the silence of the house seemed to indicate the early hour. To all onlookers, it seemed that everyone was still abed from the merriment of the evening before. They were not to know that the celebration was now all in vain, for an event that would never take place.

 _Gloom and doom, my girl_ , Tempest chastised herself. If one concentrated on the negatives of life, that was all that would ever be seen!

So, she squared her shoulders before she turned from her door, and almost immediately, her resolve failed her as her startled eyes met the dark gaze of Saintignon.

Tempest shrank back against the doorway, fumbling for the handle as he rose from the chair in the hall alcove.

"Don't," he said, halting her with two hands up as though cautiously approaching a wild animal. "Please. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I won't hurt you again, Tempest. I _vow_ it."

"You already did," she bit back, throwing back her head. If he hit her again, she would be ready. He might be stronger and more powerful, but she was determined to go down fighting.

At her words, though, he flinched, and she realized that his demeanor was dark from bleakness and exhaustion, not from anger.

"Was it-was it all a lie?" he asked in a voice so soft that she almost couldn't believe this was the same violent man from the night before. "Was everything on my side alone?"

"For God's sake," Tempest exploded in religious blasphemy. "Haven't you had enough of this Cheltenham drama? You only ever set out to salvage my reputation! And now, you will have your freedom once more!"

"I don't want freedom," he said fiercely, staring at her with steady eyes. "I only want you. Won't you ever believe me? I can see it in your eyes, you know, that disdain you can't quite hide. Won't you ever forgive me- forgive my past? Won't you be patient with me and give me another chance to be a better man?"

"No, and I _don't_ believe you," Tempest said, looking away from his blazing eyes. "Tigers don't change their stripes. You strike without even asking questions first. I could never feel safe with you. We don't even belong in the same world."

"I would give up my world to live in your world with you," he said with the unwavering intensity that was so characteristic of him. "Only I don't know how to convince you. I would sacrifice my life to be with you."

"You don't know the meaning of the word sacrifice," she whispered, despite her intentions to stay silent.

"Change your mind," he urged softly. "Give me another chance to be a better man. Without you, I don't think I have the wherewithal to do so." Tempest was afraid to even breathe.

Tempest was so intent on avoiding looking at him that she had no idea when he suddenly came so close to her. Only in the next moment when she looked up, it was to find his chest on eye level not two handbreadth away from her nose. There was no way to shrink back any further into the door, but as much as she wanted to, she wasn't going to open it and fling herself inside. At least in the hallway, he couldn't do anything to her.

His hand came up and touched her head as Tempest squeezed her eyes shut, certain at any moment he would wring the life out of her. She stood stock still as his fingers caressed her cheeks as his temper could turn at the drop of a pin. She held her breath as he pressed her back against the door since she didn't want to startle him with sudden movements.

In this same shrinking posture she stood as he lifted her chin, his hands coming up to frame her face and neck. He caressed the cheek he had struck the night before with infinite gentleness and lightly brushed his lips across the reddened area, his breath a light stroke across her face.

"Don't you understand?" he muttered. "I have given you my _heart_. How can you bear to break it? _I'm_ the one who loves you, not him. I'm the one who needs you."

His fingers brushed across her lips before they were replaced with his mouth. A gentle imploring kiss followed his plea before it deepened into something desperate. He groaned against her, "Don't leave with Rochefort, I beg you. Choose _me_ instead."

She stood there, too terrified to make a sound and too shocked to untangle herself from his embrace until a sound at the end of the hall startled them both.

In the next moment, he had whipped himself off, leaving her standing in the middle of the hallway stunned and not a little confused.

 **A/N: Sorry for the wait. I don't like cliffhangers myself, but these chapters have gotten progressively longer and longer and it was the only place I could break it and have this one end at a right place. This chapter was revised several times before I felt it was cohesive enough to be posted, and still it isn't exactly perfect. I received a review on another work that was enlightening and it made me realize that while I work (and think I succeed) on the male's development of emotions, my females appear less than enthusiastic about their relationships. Oops. Definitely needs more work. This is why all reviews (and even, or especially, the negative ones) are so important! Thanks again for reviewing!**

 **As for Flameberge's question about how the mangaka originally wanted Rui to be the male lead, I googled this and couldn't find where I read it the first time. I am thinking that I got this off an online translation of the original manga, before I learned to read in another language and before it was licensed in English, in the author's notes. I think it was in the first few volumes (probably the first 5?). I'm sorry I can't be more specific than that!**

 **Also, just so everyone is clear, Tempest is definitely ending up with Saintignon, not Rochefort (poor guy). If I feel a sudden surge of inspiration, I will endeavor to continue this past my tentative ending that's happening in less than 10 chapters, but it probably would take another year or so. (And does anyone love Lord Nigel as much as I'm starting to? Nobody? It's all right...:\\) Just a heads-up so that you guys can go off and read something more worthy!**


	40. Chapter 40

"What on earth possessed you?!"

Tempest's parents took turns yelling at her at a more subdued volume than they were wont.

"How could you do this to us?" screamed her mother, who, Tempest thought with exasperation a day ago, had advised her to make her own decision.

"The humiliation! When we are guests here!" her mother moaned.

"Our debts!" groaned her father in chorus.

"Pray tell me what exactly constitutes the majority of our mysterious debts? As far as I knew, we but sold some prized possessions to send me to London! I had no fancy jewelry or new clothes or even one new bonnet. So what exactly are all these debts?"

Her parents fell silent, exchanging a glance that was filled, to her experienced eye, with guilt.

"We, er," said her father, suddenly scratching his ear.

"Naturally, we were certain you would make a brilliant match, being our extremely talented daughter," her mother said loftily. "Therefore, as soon as Lady Islington wrote to us of the interest from varying gentlemen, we began to refurbish our household."

Tempest threw up her hands. "Why did you do such a thing? Have you no idea how fickle the men of society are? Have you no idea of how much everyone embellish their tales? Clearly Lady Islington was spinning you a Banbury tale!"

"If Lord Talleyrand has thrown you over after all he has done to represent you to be his affianced, then we shall take him to the courts!" her mother stated with determination etched across her face, and her father nodded faithfully.

"No!" Tempest shrieked. Then at a more temperate volume, she said, "No, we are not taking anyone to the courts. Have you run mad? He could ruin us! He is a madman when angered!"

"Nobody could countenance the ruining of a young girl's reputation and stand idly by. Why, I've a mind to call him out!" announced her father.

Tempest's eyes grew rounder and rounder. "What are you two saying? Have you both lost your wits?"

"She's right, Mr. Makepeace. We would not have a leg to stand on if we called him out before we took him to court."

"No, that's not what I'm saying! I'm saying that I have a better way! Lord Rochefort is-"

An audible gasp from her mother and a fevered exchange of glances between her parents. "Are you switching your engagement to him?"

"Please just listen," Tempest said on a deep sigh. "There will be no more engagements. To-to anyone. Lord Rochefort knows of our-my predicament and seeks to lessen our financial burdens. To that end, he will grant us fee simple of a simple house on his estate and to take Sev in as his ward."

Her parents shared another look.

"Well?" Tempest prompted impatiently. "Would that not solve our problems?"

"Lord Rochefort?" her father repeated tentatively. "One of the men who has just arrived?

"Excuse our doubts, daughter, but does this not seem a tad precipitate and _rash_? What do you know of this man?"

"Rash?" Tempest cried. "Papa was ready to call out the most vicious swordsman in England!"

"And why exactly would Lord Rochefort be willing to do such a thing for us, hmm?" her mother continued, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How is it you have transferred your affections so quickly and readily? Should we be wondering if Lord Talleyrand will be on hand to exact vengeance for his honor?"

"Nothing has happened!" Tempest exclaimed, horrified.

"That is not what everyone will be saying if it comes about you have thrown away a chance at the Marquis Talleyrand!"

"Lord Rochefort is every bit a gentleman. More, in fact!" Tempest said. "He saved me more than once from uncertain fate in London, and his chivalry knows no bounds. We should put our trust in a man whose kindness is innate, rather than depend on the caprice of a temperamental Midas!"

A silence fell across the room. Finally her mother said slowly, "So you knew Lord Rochefort from before? Is he also asking for your hand in marriage? How is it he has not approached your father?"

"He has not approached because he is not trying to marry me. His offer is unattached with my person and is merely an act of charity."

"Charity!" shrieked her mother. "We have not sunk so low that we need accept such handouts." Her father nodded in agreement.

"We _have_ sunk just so low, mama!" Tempest said urgently. "Think of your duns, papa. Think of Sev!"

"I thought we _were_ , when we endeavored to marry you to the richest man on God's green earth."

"I...can't countenance it, mama," Tempest said, looking down at her hands. "Not when there is an alternative, and Lord Rochefort has offered it. Saintignon is capricious and unpredictable and his rages are a terror to behold. I fear for his next whim and where it will take me. I fear to be worse off than where I am now. Things can... they _can_ be worse." Tempest felt she spoke from the knowledge of experience. Once before, in London, she had thought things could not get worse and been proven wrong.

Her parents did not speak for a long moment. Finally, "We cannot force you into a union that repels you so thoroughly," her mother said.

"How long have you known this Rochefort fellow?" her father asked.

"He is the Viscount Lord Harry Rochefort," Tempest said dully. All she could think about was Saintignon's whispered entreaty to choose him over his friend. His gentle, desperate kiss. His fevered words that he loved her. Had she imagined all of that? But she was afraid to believe him. She had grown up all her life on tales of the aristocracy and their marriages of convenience. The last person she could equate with a lifetime of loving gentleness was Saintignon, and when it came down to it, she was afraid to bet the rest of her life on it.

Notwithstanding his short bouts of favor, the last deep impression she had of him was of him striking her, striking Rochefort, and hurling a heavy sideboard desk to one side. She no longer believed him a monster after the first angry reactions of the evening before had passed, but a saint he most certainly was not. He was scarily prone to unpredictable rages and heaven help whoever stood between him and his object of anger. As his wife, she would be a convenient target at all times. It was not a fate she fancied.

"The Viscount Rochefort!" exclaimed Mrs. Makepeace. "No bothersome in-laws. His parents died in a carriage accident on the Continent while he was a babe. He's been the viscount since the age of seven or eight."

This was all news to Tempest, who stared at her mother. To experience such a tragedy at seven or eight! It was perhaps no wonder he had been so attached to his neighbor's daughter, the Lady Susanna, she who must have been unendingly kind to him and been a sort of lifeline before he had been sent off to school.

"He is quite fabulously rich," raved her mother. "It's rumored that he invested much on the Stock, you know. _Trade_ , but of course, it isn't _common_ because his title is so very old that he can trace his antecedents back to the Norman Conquest."

"Have you-have you memorized this, mama?" Tempest asked with incredulity.

"Yes, and it has paid off," Mrs. Makepeace returned pertly. "He is no end of a good catch, so we are willing to accept him as a replacement for Lord Talleyrand."

"There is to be no replacement, mother!" Tempest exploded. "Please, just-just start packing at once. I need to see to our return back to Upper Cheltendon."

It was only an hour past noon when the interview with her parents ended, but Tempest felt bone-weary. Her shoulders slumped further as she thought of speaking to Yolanda, and then the Countess Wivenbrough. _What a pity_ , Tempest thought wistfully, _and I had so liked her too._

But it was not to be helped, so Tempest decided to tackle the more taxing discussion first. She stopped a footman walking past and inquired as to the Countess's whereabouts.

He lowered his eyelids to half masts and said with a definite edge of insolence that he wasn't privy to her schedule before sauntering off.

Tempest stared after him with a sinking heart that the household grapevine must currently be working like mad for the servants to know of her quarrel with Saintignon. In all possibility, the countess probably knew of it already.

She squared her shoulders and walked down the stairs as though to do battle and loitered in the library until the butler came into view. "Where is Lady Wivenbrough?" she asked brusquely, giving no quarter to be brushed off.

The butler-Carstairs-eyed her for a moment before replying with no inflexion whatsoever, "Milady was last seen entering the library, miss."

"Thank you, Carstairs," Tempest said, letting out a breath of relief she didn't even realized she had been holding.

"We hope young miss can find it in her heart to forgive the master his faults," Carstairs added softly behind her. "If you'll pardon the impertinence. The young master is culpable of much violence, but he has a kind heart deep underneath his cold exterior. We are convinced that his partiality to young miss does him much credit."

Tempest didn't turn around, but she paused in her steps to listen to the butler before nodding once and leaving the entranceway.

The _Willows_ library was a work of wonder that she had only seen in passing. Now, she thought it a pity that she only had minutes to admire the room before she was made to quit the estate.

The library was a long rectangular room designed to maximize the light during daylight hours. Thus, it had a great fireplace at one end surrounded by bookshelves, a wall of windows with shutters on the outside to ward off the most of the winter chill, and a spiral staircase to reach the second floor of bookcases, which ran the perimeter of the rectangular room with its own walkway buffered by luxurious railing. It was an awe-inspiring room with several writing tables and comfortable lounge-style settees arranged around a great rug.

Lady Wivenbrough was sitting at one of the writing tables, furiously penning a missive.

Tempest approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt the older woman's train of thought, but before she could perch on one of the settees to await her ladyship, the countess spoke.

"Come to beard to lioness in her den, then, Miss Makepeace?" the countess said, startling Tempest.

Tempest froze.

The countess sighed and put away her quill. "I can see you in the reflection of the window."

"Ah," Tempest said awkwardly. "I take it you've heard?"

"It's rather difficult to keep such portent news secret in a great household," the countess said wryly, standing up and walking over to Tempest.

"It was Tempest yesterday," Tempest said a little sadly. "But if you'd rather not speak to me, I understand."

The countess heaved a sigh and gestured Tempest to one of the chairs. "I don't blame you, you know, not at all. My brother is-he can be _so difficult_. He was a difficult child. Precocious in some ways, oblivious in others, _very_ sensitive, if you can believe that. It was trained out of him by my father and a succession of tutors, one harsher than the previous in order to make a man of him. If my mother had been a gentler woman, doubtless he could have been kinder to women or mankind in general. But my mother is not. She had no love of children, beyond what status we brought her, or can bring her in future."

"My lady, you should not confide such personal details to me," Tempest said uneasily. "We are no longer to be wed, if we ever were."

The countess held up a hand and Tempest fell silent. "I don't know what precipitated your ending the engagement. I do, however, want you to try to understand my brother. He doesn't express himself well, as this no doubt emphasizes, but I have no doubt that he genuinely cared for you."

Tempest had nothing to say to rebut that.

"Will you wed Rochefort then?" the countess asked sadly when she remained silent.

Tempest gave a start. "Wed? No! No, it is not that sort of arrangement. My lady, I would not have you think that I threw Saintignon over for another man. Rather, I don't believe we are suited for each other in the least. I don't believe I can make him happy, nor he me-"

"Make him happy? You have made him ecstatic! How can I convince you? Even though my brother has been feted and courted from a young age, he has never succumbed to any girl's machinations and has instead, unlike Lord Nigel or Lord Marchmont, grown to despise all women. But with you, he has become far gentler and pleasant to be around. He has even deigned to laugh occasionally in mixed company. He seeks to be more civil to his servants and more diplomatic to his peers. He seeks for your approval in all things. In short, I believe you are what he needs to be a better man."

 _It shouldn't be my duty to tame the beast!_ Tempest thought with a lump in her throat. It was too arduous a task, too great the risks.

"Lord Rochefort was most generous in offering to take my brother as his ward. Since Lord Rochefort is...a very kind gentleman and one that I wish Severin to emulate, at least in character if not in status, this is an opportunity I am very grateful to have on behalf of my entire family."

Lady Wivenbrough studied Tempest for a moment while the younger woman tried to stay impassive. Then the countess sighed. "I don't blame you for choosing Rochefort. His vagueness practically _begs_ for some strong woman to take him under her wing, and I suspect you are just such a woman. I _am_ sorry it is not Saint, although I-"

The countess was never able to finish conveying her thoughts because the door to the library was flung open and Saintignon strode in, followed by Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel.

Saintignon came in with his brows drawn down over his eyes, looking much as he ever did back in London when he was threatening to horsewhip one person or the next. The next moment, he was brought up short at the sight of Tempest and his sister, and his cheeks flushed a deep red.

"Oh, dear God," groaned Lord Nigel. "Miss Makepeace, talk some sense into Saintignon, will you?"

"Don't speak to her," Saintignon ordered, pressing his lips together and averting his eyes from her.

"I hope you know, Miss Makepeace, that you are the complete antithesis of your name," Lord Nigel continued, looking very irate. "And because of your thoughtless actions, Saint has called out Lord Rochefort."

"What?" breathed Tempest and screamed the countess at the same time.

"It is none of their business!" shouted Saintignon. "OUT! Out of my library, so that we may discuss things."

"We are most definitely not leaving," the countess announced, standing. Tempest hurriedly followed suit.

"Perhaps it is we who should adjourn to another room," Lord Marchmont said with a bow. "Saint-"

The countess ran to bar her brother from the door, hauling Tempest along with a tight grip on her arm. "Saint, whatever can have possessed you? Rochefort is your _oldest_ friend."

Saintignon tried to avoid their eyes, but he glanced sideways by accident and met Tempest's shocked expression. His cheeks flushed again.

"Miss Makepeace, have you thrown Saint over to be with Rochefort? What kind of woman-" demanded Lord Nigel.

"No!" Tempest shrieked. "I haven't thrown Saintignon over for anyone. I have set him free in order that we won't be bound by the rules of society! I am _not_ marrying Lord Rochefort! He has proposed to make Severin-my brother-his ward, and offered to help my father better his investments! It is an act of charity, that is all! I do not come into the picture!" Tempest wanted to tear out her hair in frustration.

There was a brief silence during which Lord Nigel exchanged glances with Lord Marchmont.

"Saint?" Lord Nigel prompted with an edge to his voice. "Was there something you neglected to mention to us? Something while you were ranting and raving about being cuckolded and cheated by your friend?"

"Yes, I would be most interested in learning more of this arrangement you have with Lord Rochefort," agreed Lord Marchmont quietly.

"We...all know of his recent...loss," Tempest said slowly. "And he was concerned by the fact that we-I would have to marry to protect my reputation. He thinks it is a choice that nobody should have to face. He believes everybody should have freedom of choice from society's and economic constraints and that he would I had the freedom to live my life as I saw fit. To that end, he-he offered to take my brother under his wing. Lord Rochefort claimed that he had many dependents and that undoubtedly my brother was one who needed advocacy."

Another pause.

"That definitely sounds more like Roche," Lord Marchmont said.

"Indeed, the idealistic dunce," agreed Lord Nigel with a sigh. "I should have known he wasn't the type to cuckold anyone. Not knowingly, at any rate."

In unison, the group all turned to look at Saintignon, who flushed an even deeper crimson. "What?" he growled, drumming his fingers on a bookshelf.

"Have you anything to say for yourself, brother of mine?" asked the countess sweetly. "Anything to say to offset the fact you have deeply maligned your _friend_ and planned to dispatch him forthwith?"

Saintignon shrugged and hunched his shoulders. "I wouldn't have... _dispatched_ him."

"Go apologize to him at once!" Lady Wivenbrough thundered. "I shall take a horsewhip to you myself!"

"No!" Saintignon shouted right back. "This is _my_ house, and if you don't like it, you can bloody well take yourself out of here!"

"Oh dear," murmured Lord Marchmont. "And they're off."

"Is this your idea of _sacrifice_ , my lord?" asked Tempest in a quiet voice that effectively shut everyone up.

Saint ducked his head.

"Because it doesn't seem at all like you understand what that means," she said.

"A sacrifice denotes that something is gained in exchange," he said, raising his eyes to meet hers. "Is that what you are offering?"


	41. Chapter 41

Tempest swallowed. Again, they were at a crossroads.

She was saved from an unlikely quarter. Countess Wivenbrough had taken ahold of a nearby book and swatted her brother across the shoulders with it.

"How dare you!" Countess Wivenbrough raged at her brother. "Are you, even now, bartering for the life of your friend from Tempest? By requesting she sacrifice herself? By all that is holy, she shouldn't have to marry you even if you cut off your arms and gave them to her!"

Tempest let herself out of the library as the screaming match ensued.

She stood outside the closed doors for a moment, marveling at how the thick panels practically extinguished all sound from within, except, of course, the fact that the Saintignon siblings were shouting so that all of Christendom could hear their dispute.

Rochefort must not engage in this duel, she thought. Not when it was her fault he was even in such a predicament in the first place. He had been struck, abused, and now challenged to a duel. Tempest felt horribly guilty. If she hadn't taken him up on his generous offer, this wouldn't have happened.

Except that Tempest was sure anything could tip Saintignon over the edge. Did he not become angry when Lord Walbrey spoke to her for a few moments in the midst of a crowded room? Was he not unjustifiably jealous when she enjoyed the conversation of an elderly curate? All signs pointed to Saintignon having the temper of the devil and no self-control with which to match it.

"Tempest!"

Tempest turned around to find Yolanda running after her.

"Didn't you hear me? I've been trying to get your attention ever since I saw you on the landing. I was afraid I'd lose sight of you before I made it downstairs."

"I'm so sorry, Yolanda, my head must have been in the clouds," Tempest apologized.

"What has happened?" Yolanda demanded to know with round eyes. "At breakfast this morning, most of the guests were in an uproar. It seems that they woke up to find they had been given their marching orders-you know, where a card was slipped in with their servants to thank them for their visit but that it was now inconvenient for them to stay as the host would now be departing for more temperate climes."

Tempest stopped short. "They did?"

"Yes! And because it's Saintignon, nobody dared to outstay their welcome, so most of them were hurrying their servants along with the packing. Half of them have already gone."

"We must too," Tempest said, hooking an elbow around Yolanda's arm.

"Whatever is going on? Where did you go after the fireworks yesterday? Where were you at breakfast?"

"Back to my bedchamber so we can talk in private," Tempest urged. They hurried to the stairs and made it to their wing and within their bedchamber.

"Whatever is happening?" wailed Yolanda.

"I am not marrying Saintignon."

"What?" Yolanda exclaimed.

"I have broken off the engagement, so we shall have to pack and be on our way."

"I thought we talked about this already," Yolanda said with some exasperation. "Tempest, will you be forever waffling on this issue?"

"This time, it is for certain," Tempest said firmly. "You know I never could erase my doubts about Saintignon, and, and Lord Rochefort has made a generous offer-"

"He proposed?!"

"No! Will everyone stop asking that! He wishes that I had the freedom to make whatever choice I will, so he offered to take Severin as his ward."

"For nothing in return?" Yolanda asked skeptically.

"It is an act of charity."

"For how long?"

"For...forever, I assume."

"Tempest!" Yolanda said on a sigh. "How is this better than marriage to Lord Talleyrand? This is charity with-with no leverage at all! If you are not married, then if Lord Rochefort changes his mind, your family will be worse off than before! Sev will have grown used to a certain living and not have the wherewithal to support it!"

Tempest was stunned. "But-but this is the solution to my problems!"

"You are making your own problems worse," Yolanda said sternly. "And who is Lord Rochefort and why is he so inclined to help you without wanting to marry you? That seems extremely suspicious! I feel his intentions are not nearly as pure as Lord Talleyrand's!"

"Lord Rochefort is one of the Four Horsemen," Tempest said quietly. "And he is the one who has come to my rescue again and again. He is an honorable man and wishes me to have the same freedom of choice as though money were not an issue."

"He is as idealistic as you," Yolanda said with a shake of her head. "The only blessing here is that you will not be married to him. Two such idealistic people should never be wed; it is asking for servants to rob them blind."

Tempest sat down on the edge of the bed and stared down at the toes of her slippers. "I am dearly sorry I have involved you in my problems, Yolanda. Would I that you did not come with me to this madhouse."

Yolanda perched on the bed next to Tempest and put a tentative arm around her friend's shoulders. "I'm sorry I scolded, Tempest. Truly, it is not my place to interfere. Only, I did wish your life weren't half so dramatic! But surely you see that you are making it harder on yourself."

"Am I being a fool?" Tempest asked, her head on Yolanda's shoulders. "For I did not tell you, you know. It is not that I do not wish to marry Lord Rochefort. It is only that I wish he wanted to...to marry me."

"Ah," said Yolanda quietly. "So that's what it is."

"Yes," agreed Tempest faintly.

They sat in silence for a long moment. "I do admire you, Tempest, in a way," Yolanda said. "I would not have the nerve to follow my passion like you."

"No," Tempest said with a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. "You would be far more level-headed."

"What have your parents to say of this?"

Tempest made a half-hearted gesture with her hands. "Oh, you know. The usual ranting and raving and quoting of Debrett's."

They laughed.

"Do you think my parents are the reason I have such a hard time being as level-headed as you?" Tempest asked.

"Perhaps," said Yolanda slowly. "They are indeed very idealistic and optimistic."

"They live in their dreams only."

"Things will work out for the best, Tempest," Yolanda said. "If we just regard your life as one of those novels we used to read in secret, then it is not half the trial that it seems right now."

"Thank you, dearest," Tempest said dryly. "And now I had best find Lord Rochefort and begin packing. I must find out if he intends to duel with Saintignon or not."

"Duel?" Yolanda gaped. "But it is illegal!"

"When has such a thing ever stopped such as Saintignon?" Tempest asked, and let herself from the room.

Tempest made her way downstairs for the second time that day, feeling a grumbling sensation in her middle that reminded her that she had not eaten at all that day. However, she could not wait until after tea to speak with Lord Rochefort. She hated to think of what Saintignon was plotting while she busied herself with crumpets. With a sigh, she made her way towards the conservatory.

On her way there, she came across Lord Walbrey, who looked uncomfortable and surprised to see her. Tempest dipped into a curtsey and continued on her way.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Makepeace, are you headed to the conservatory?" Lord Walbrey asked.

"Yes, I must speak to Lord Rochefort if possible. He is our escort back to Cheltendon."

Lord Walbrey's eyebrows rose. "You are leaving us, then?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Tempest replied with a smile and turned to continue on.

"If it's not an impertinence, I do believe you will not find him there," Lord Walbrey said.

"Have you seen him elsewhere?"

"Yes, he took his horse out for a ride. As it happens, I planned to take my carriage to town and I shall surely pass him on the road. Is it very urgent, your business with him?" Lord Walbrey asked with concern.

"It is...pressing."

Lord Walbrey rocked back on his heels. "Ah. I would offer to take you up with me, but I am not sure if Lord Talleyrand…"

Tempest drew in a breath. "I thank you kindly for your offer, Lord Walbrey, and a carriage ride is exactly what I need at this minute."

"I shall be honored to have your company," Lord Walbrey intoned with a small bow. "Shall I have the horses readied while you change?"

Tempest thanked him and ran up the stairs again. Thank goodness for Lord Walbrey! Who knew when next she would get an opportunity to speak with Lord Rochefort?

The maidservants of the house were playing least in attendance today, and Tempest hurriedly grabbed a pelisse from her room and fastened a bonnet on her head, thanking her stars that she was wearing one of her older gowns that doubled as both her walking and traveling gown. In a thrice, she was downstairs and out the door where Lord Walbrey was walking his horses up and down the drive.

"Promptness in so fair a maiden is an unbidden virtue," he quipped when he saw her, and he handed her up to the open carriage as the groom busied himself with checking the leads.

They were setting off the drive when Tempest realized she had not left a note for anyone in the household. "Oh, dear," she said. "Perhaps we should turn back so I can let my parents know where I am about."

"I informed Carstairs of my desire for a drive around the countryside," Lord Walbrey said. "It should not take us above three quarters of an hour, at any rate."

"I hope Lord Rochefort is not very far ahead of us," Tempest said.

"Surely Lord Talleyrand can act as your escort. Unless he has very urgent business?"

Tempest wasn't sure what the houseguests had been told in their mad exodus from the house, but she didn't like to inform this man of her broken engagement when she wasn't very familiar with him. "Saintignon is a very busy man," she agreed equably.

Lord Walbrey was an amusing escort, and pointed out sights in the countryside. He was also a very good driver and able to lead them at a spanking pace while holding the reins with only one hand. They made good time to the King and Crown, but did not see Lord Rochefort anywhere along the way.

"Miss Makepeace, please forgive me if I speak out of turn, but would you be averse to some refreshments? I find the cold air has stirred up my appetite," Lord Walbrey said, and Tempest was so hungry that she eagerly agreed.

They ate in the front window of the King and Crown and Tempest kept her eyes open for any fair-headed man walking past, but there was nobody. Finally, she devoted herself to partaking of the excellent tea.

"Shall we return?" Lord Walbrey asked after they finished and he had settled the bill.

"Yes," Tempest said. "Do you think Lord Rochefort would have returned?"

"I hesitate to suggest this, but it is very possible that he has ridden to the next town. Lord Rochefort often rides to Fannyfield and overnights there."

"Perhaps we should head back," Tempest said reluctantly. There was nothing but folly in following Lord Rochefort about the countryside when in all probability, he had returned to Willows. But would he still be at Willows when Saintignon had called him out? Tempest now felt the stirrings of unease. Had Yolanda been right? Had she been much too impetuous to take Lord Rochefort up on his offer? Oh, if she had had the opportunity to just speak to him!

Lord Walbrey glanced at her sideways. "If it is very urgent," he said gently. "There is no harm in going down the road a ways to find his direction. We can ask at the next stables if his horse has been sighted."

"I am very grateful that you are being so obliging, my lord," Tempest said, bestowing a smile.

"Think nothing of it, Miss Makepeace," Lord Walbrey said grandly, and they made off down the road that led to Fannyfield.

But they seemed to always be only one minute behind the fleeting figure of Lord Rochefort. At at least three stops, Lord Walbrey leaped from the carriage to inquire after his lordship as Tempest waited anxiously inside the carriage. Each time, however, he would reappear with a disappointed shake of his head. "Only just missed him, I'm afraid," Lord Walbrey would say with apparent consternation.

"Perhaps we should head back," Tempest suggested after the fourth stop. "The hour grows late." They had now been away from the house for over two hours now.

"Shall we try just one more stop? Fellow is bound to stop somewhere to rest his horse," Lord Walbrey said reasonably.

He had been so accommodating all afternoon that Tempest was hesitant to bother him further, but he seemed to have made tracking down Lord Rochefort into a mission of some kind, and a light was now burning in his eyes. Therefore Tempest nodded with a polite smile, although with some qualms.

The next stop seemed to be further than ever. Tempest realized that the last stop had been the very edge of that town and now they were traveling along a road that was decidedly bumpy and off the beaten path.

"Have we passed Fannyfield?" she asked tentatively at one point, but Lord Walbrey seemed not to hear and a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead in his concentration.

After what felt like forever, with no foot traffic crossing their way, not even a stray sheep, he slowed the carriage to a stop. "I'm afraid we'll have to stop here for a moment. I fear one of the horses has picked up a stone in his shoe."

Tempest nodded, unease building in her chest as she was handed down the carriage. She walked slowly to the door as Lord Walbrey silently led the horses and carriage to the rear.

The building was a small brick edifice with boarded up slats for windows that gave Tempest another feeling of unease. She pushed open the door and walked in, saying, "Hello? Is anyone here?" as she did so.

There was only the sound of crickets and dripping water in response.

Inside, there was a small front hall with worn chairs and a clean fireplace. There were cabinets along one wall, and a window that didn't have slats but iron bars criss-crossed in front of it to shed light into the room.

She was beyond relieved when Lord Walbrey appeared in the doorway behind her. "I don't think anyone's here," she said.

"Shame," he said with a frown. "I'll have to ride to town on one of the horses then. It's dashed inconvenient it's picked up a stone."

Tempest smiled uncertainly. She did not relish staying in this odd and silent place waiting for Lord Walbrey, but as he had been trying to aid her, she could not now turn missish.

"Shall we avail ourselves to something to drink?" he asked, and rummaged in the cabinets before producing some bottles and glasses.

Tempest dearly wanted to say no and hurry Lord Walbrey on his way before night fell completely. She watched him prepare the glasses and hand one to her.

"Here's to our misguided adventure," he said in a droll sort of way before knocking back his glass and raising his eyebrows at her afterwards, as though questioning why she was not drinking.

She was reluctant to drink something from this strange place, but Lord Walbrey was looking at her expectantly. Furthermore, it was very strange that he managed to find drinks so quickly in this odd place. She sipped from the cup he gave her as he watched with a smile.

"I shall be back in a jiffy, Miss Makepeace. I am so very sorry that our hunt has ended in this mishap, but I shall return with the landlady so that your reputation can be preserved."

It was very gentlemanly of him to be so concerned for her reputation and he was a very decent sort to not be up in the boughs over the situation they had found themselves solely because of her desire to search out Lord Rochefort. She nodded in determined cheer, although the motion jarred her head terribly.

In the next moment, Lord Walbrey had left the odd abode, closing the door quietly with a slightly jiggling motion as it seemed to be very old and not fitted properly. Tempest wandered about the front hall for a moment before she decided to light a candle. Her head felt very woozy all of a sudden, and she wondered if the wine had gone bad. She hoped that Lord Walbrey was all right, wherever he was, as he was the only one who knew where she was.

Tempest decided to open the door to see how far off Lord Walbrey had gone, if he had fallen off his horse somehow, since he had partaken far more of the wine than she had. She pulled at the door in the same jiggling manner he had before it dawned on her that the door was locked.

Don't panic, Tempest told herself. Perhaps it's only stuck. It had taken him an inordinate amount of time to jiggle the door in place. All she had to do was wait for half an hour, for surely that was enough time to ride at a gallop to the nearest town to request aid.

She took the candle and decided to explore the house in order to acquaint herself with the place. It was a very small house, with only the kitchen and one bedroom that looked occupied aside from the front room. In the bedroom, she found evidence of residence-a man's traveling cape and a fob watch on a small table. Her head felt worse than ever as she searched. It must be the closed air, she decided, and determinedly looked through the room. In one corner of the room were some papers stacked haphazardly. And then some calling cards.

Tempest picked them up. The words swam before her tired eyes.

Lord Reginald Walbrey.

Something was terribly wrong, but the words and thoughts floated through Tempest's brain like a will o'wisp just out of reach.

In the next moment, she knew no more.

AN: Apologies for the influx of cliffhangers, but sadly those were the only places the chapters broke up evenly and at a congruent word count.

I've had some time to think about this fic, and generally, I think that there hasn't been enough development between Tempest and Saintignon. There's been too much Rochefort, which some reviewers pointed out. And good heavens, because this took me two years to get to this point, there's been a host of issues with the whole piece, including way too many continuity issues and the typos in the first ten or more chapters. My poor readers. At some point, I will try to correct those errors, because it's painful to me that it's floating around on the Internet in such a state.


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